


Purged

by BirdStreet



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdStreet/pseuds/BirdStreet
Summary: After the divorce, Chase enters somewhat of a downward spiral and develops a less-than-ideal relationship with food. Will he seek help before it's too late? Rated M for ED and abuse themes, and language. Platonic Chase/House friendship.
Comments: 92
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> As suggested by the name and tags, this is an ED fic, with mentions of childhood abuse (of all kinds) throughout. Please use caution when reading if these may bother you! Set somewhere in s6, with some divergences from canon.

_This is not a problem if I'm in control of it_ , he thought, shaking hands grasping the cool porcelain, clammy forehead resting in the crook of his arm. _It's not._ His breathing ragged and shallow, Chase forced himself to his feet, stumbling over to his bathroom sink and clumsily grabbing the blue bottle almost on autopilot. As he swirled the mouthwash around his cheeks and spat it out, ridding his mouth of the overwhelmingly acidic taste there only seconds earlier, he stared into the mirror at himself, eyes bloodshot and watering. _This is not a problem_.

It had started somewhat accidentally, after a few too many drinks with that pediatric nurse at the local Japanese restaurant - and maybe a few too many more when he staggered home, said nurse having refused his drunken propositions to head back to hers. A long week had culminated in the team losing two patients, brothers; it was no one's fault but the father who'd inadvertently withheld essential information needed for an accurate diagnosis. To top it off, Cameron and the divorce had been weighing on his mind more than usual. It was a Friday night, so if Chase's time usually reserved for crawling into bed with whichever girl it was that week was free, he might as well stay up and make the most of it, he reasoned. Numb a bit of the ever lurking unease with a bottle or few.

This was a decision he came to regret five glasses of Merlot in, as he sprawled miserably on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, overcome with vertigo and nausea. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been quite this wasted; he had hoped the frankly obscene amount of sushi they'd consumed between them would cushion the alcohol as it hit his stomach, but it only seemed to aggravate the terrible, queasy, tight sensation.

After what seemed like hours - although it could have been mere minutes - of the intense nausea, punctuated by awful dry-heaving, he'd had enough, and decided to take matters into his own hands, quite literally. A little encouragement to get it out couldn't hurt, he decided, so, room still spinning, he pulled himself up to lean over the toilet basin.

Afterwards, as he gingerly climbed into bed - feeling somewhat less intoxicated and significantly less sick, but with a burning throat and raw skin on his knuckles - he considered how right it felt to be empty, how clean and satisfying. He hadn't felt that sense of serenity in a long time. Certainly not since Cameron left. Maybe longer. Interesting. With his body heavy and his mind unfocused, it was not long before Chase found himself falling into a dreamless sleep.

House was certain there was something going on with Robert Chase, and House, despite his often outlandish ideas, was never totally wrong. Chase had seemed somewhat subdued recently - which was to be expected since Cameron had left less than a year prior - but if anything, House thought, he should be more torn up over it. Where was the anger, the cockiness, the blaming-everyone-but-himself? Although House knew Chase had made the right call with Dibala - and he knew Chase knew it - a certain level of guilt was par for the course when a patient died, and he hadn't seen any of the telltale signs. He'd known the younger doctor for long enough to understand how he responded to hardship, and frankly this was out of character.

Pushing open the office doors, House sauntered in. "Cuddy! Just the woman I wanted to see. And yes, by woman, I do mean breasts".

Cuddy sighed. "If this is about yesterday's board meeting, yes you were out of line, yes I should be sending you to anger management classes, no I am not going to force you. Happy?"

"When am I _not_ a sparkling ray of sunshine? And no, that's not what I'm here about - although that guy needed to be taken down a few notches, and who am I to stand in the way of karmic justice?"

"With your track record I wouldn't invoke karma if I were you - what is it you want then? You still have to do double your clinic hours."

"Okay, let's cut to the Chase. Ha ha. Get it? Because I'm here about Chase", House quipped, laughing far too heartily at his own pun. "You double his clinic hours too? Because if so, that's-"

"No, I did not. You're still special, don't worry. What's wrong with Chase?"

House furrowed his brow. "Well, I was hoping you could tell me that, being his boss and all. Shouldn't you know when and why your employees aren't themselves, offer them a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, yada yada?"

"House, you are literally their bo- never mind. I'm sure Chase is fine - he's probably, I mean it's, what, seven months since Cameron left him? He's probably still processing. And if there is something wrong I don't doubt you'll have broken several ethical and possibly criminal laws to figure out what it is by the time I can say 'Hippocrates'. Now please leave, I've had a donor on hold for the last fifteen minutes and he'll be getting impatient." Cuddy crossed her arms and stared pointedly at the door.

"There is something going on, and when I find out he's dying of some terrible incurable disease - or maybe he's pregnant - I won't say I told you so! Actually, I almost certainly will, but ehh", House expertly twirled his cane round his fingers, before walking out. Cuddy rolled her eyes and made sure he was actually gone, before returning to her paperwork and phone call.

As he strode away, House was not placated by Cuddy's insistence that all was well. He'd been alive long enough to know when to trust his gut, and something with Chase was decidedly off. In that moment, he resolved to get to the bottom of it, no matter what.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to self harm, although nothing graphic. Please take care reading.

Chase quickly became accustomed to his new routine.

_Wake up. Go to work. Go home. Cook dinner. Eat dinner. Vomit dinner. Watch TV. Bed. Rinse and repeat._

He valued the order of it all, the predictability. Despite his propensity for one night stands (although they were becoming somewhat less frequent since this little habit started), he'd never been one for recklessness and spontaneity, preferring to know exactly what was happening and when, who, why, how. It didn't take much soul searching for Chase to know that this was likely due to the less-than-stellar parenting he'd received as a child. An alcoholic mother eventually unable to keep even herself alive was hardly the caring, supportive maternal figure he'd longed for. That being said, it was, in many ways, better than the other side of the same coin. Rowan, when he wasn't jetting off to medical conferences around the world, had been deeply attentive. _Too_ attentive-

Chase cut himself off mid-thought, refusing to allow his mind to wander over memories he'd worked for years to suppress. He'd decided it was better that way. _Can't be hurt by what you don't think about_. He forcefully shook his head, as if hoping the nagging words in his brain would fall out of his ears, and turned his attention back to the stove. Tonight's dinner was a simple one, consisting of leftover roast chicken and some frozen fries and veg from the freezer. He didn't want to admit it, but since this... _thing_ had become a daily occurrence - maybe for the past month or so - he'd been putting less effort into his culinary endeavours. He couldn't help thinking it was a little pointless to slave away in the kitchen for hours, only for most of that hard work to end up down the bathroom pipes almost immediately.

As he served up the meat and dumped the pan in the dishwasher, Chase thought back to the period after leaving the seminary in which he had flirted with various forms of self destruction. At the time, he'd felt lost and deeply frustrated, floundering and not knowing the direction he wanted his life to go in. Losing his faith had shaken him; he'd been so sure of his calling to serve God, and now that was gone, then what? He'd experimented with various substances of varying legalities, but found that the loss of control that came with being high felt too risky, too vulnerable. He'd habitually engage in casual sex - some things never change - which gave the sense of being needed by someone, if only for one night. For a not insignificant period of time in the first year of med school, Chase had taken to burning his upper thighs with a lighter that one of his stoner friends had left in his dorm room after a particularly wild night. He never told a soul. It was a vice he made use of whenever the stress got a little too much, or thoughts of his dysfunctional family wouldn't quiet, until he'd encountered a schizophrenic patient on his psych rotation with self inflicted scars littering his entire body. He'd been so horrified by the frequency and severity of the injuries that he'd thrown the lighter out of his dorm window that evening and vowed to never burn himself again. He'd never risk letting himself get so out of control.

Things had gradually improved from then onwards, with the move to the States proving deeply beneficial for Chase's mental wellbeing. Gaining a dream job, a girlfriend, and a few thousand miles between his father was the kick up the backside he needed to get his life back on track. Any lingering desires to damage himself in any manner were dulled, and being on House's team was a constant distraction from his old life back in Australia. Chase frowned to himself as he finished off his carrots, reminded that the then-girlfriend who'd provided so invaluable to him was now an ex-wife. But he was fine, he assured himself. He could always throw himself harder into work, and it's not like this whole throwing up thing would cause any issues. Despite being a doctor, and logically knowing the plethora of risks and complications that frequent vomiting was associated with, he knew he could keep it under control and stop as soon as he wanted, just like he had with the burning all those years ago. He'd resolved to never let it happen at PPTH, and never more than once a day, and even then as he knelt on the tiles, acid burning his esophagus and the smell of carrots in his nostrils, he told himself once again that it was _not a problem_.

Chase found himself wondering how much he could risk bending those rules less than a week later, eating his lunch in the cafeteria with Thirteen and Taub. They'd already misdiagnosed their current patient twice, and the treatment they'd given her for the suspected myasthenia gravis had left her peeing blood. Less than ideal. That, and he was sure the cook had given him a larger portion of fries than normal. Aware of how observant his colleagues could be when they wanted to, he continued eating and tried to tune in to the conversation.

"Okay, but can you really be surprised she thinks you're having an affair, after, y'know, the several affairs you've had?", Thirteen mumbled through a mouthful of food. "It's not like she doesn't have any precedent for it."

Taub exhaled. "I know, I know, it's just... I'm trying to be open and honest with her, and so when she instantly assumes the worst it's kind of a slap in the face to all my hard work."

"Pretty sure it shouldn't be hard work to not sleep with other women when you're married", Chase remarked. "It's basically what you signed up for." In spite of his best efforts to irritate the older man into an argument, hoping a good old fashioned dispute might tear his focus away from the substantial amount of food going through his digestive system, Taub didn't rise to the bait, simply rolling his eyes and adding another "I know", before heading back to the office. Chase eyed the remaining fries, weighing up how many he could leave without Thirteen commenting.

"So, any other ideas?"

"What?"

Dr. Hadley chuckled. "You really weren't listening to a single word I said, huh? I was asking if you have any other ideas. It's not a stroke, it's not MG, what are we missing?"

"What, so you can steal all my thunder back in the office in fifteen minutes and take all the credit? I think not", retorted Chase. "And I was listening, just lost my train of thought. Could be some kind of brain cancer." He shifted in his seat, becoming more uneasy with the sensation in his abdomen by the second.

"All the scans were normal, MRI, CT - I guess it could be too small to see on the scans", she mused.

"Too small to see on the scans equals too small to cause the symptoms."

"Yeah. Maybe we need to stop thinking neurological. What about a fungus or a parasite, that could-" Thirteen was cut off mid sentence by Chase's chair scraping against the floor as he got to his feet.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, I've gotta get to the bathroom. Dodgy tum. Think something was off with those fries", he grimaced, turning swiftly and making a beeline for the elevators. Thirteen, surprised, raised an eyebrow at no-one in particular, and finished off her sandwich, before heading back to the Diagnostics department.

House watched her leave, seated with Wilson at their usual table. The distance had been too great to head any of their conversation, but he could see the discomfort on Chase's face as he'd exited, only adding to his mystery and cementing the suspicion that the Australian was hiding something. Grabbing the bigger half of Wilson's sandwich and ignoring the protests, he stood swiftly, eyes still glued to the elevator Chase had vanished into.


	3. Chapter Three

Having been accosted by no less than three members of staff on his way back to Diagnostics, House was frustrated to discover that whatever had been bothering Chase was now either not an issue, or disguised under a well-crafted mask. He suspected the latter. All members of his team had returned from their lunch breaks and were seated around the table, clearly passing time waiting for their boss to return. Chase and Taub were nursing freshly made coffee, while Thirteen idly twirled her pen around her fingers.

"No one think to make me one?", House said in mock outrage, gesturing to the steaming mugs. "Gee, it's almost like you think I'm unpredictable and irritating and thus don't want to do anything nice for me in fear of me somehow turning it into a bad thing. What have we got on the patient? Still pissing crimson?"

Thirteen began. "She's no worse but standard treatment for kidney failure isn't helping. I was thinking maybe it could be fungal."

House gasped. "Great idea! Wow, why did no one already think of that and rule out every fungus we could? Hang on..." He sank his shoulders in mock deflation.

"What about a parasite? Would explain the seizures and headaches", Taub offered.

"Wouldn't explain the sudden onset muscle weakness. Chase?"

Chase blinked. "Uh, I was going to suggest fungus too", he said, nodding to Thirteen.

"Then suggest something else! Jesus, it's like you've been here ten minutes. There's three of you; I expect three ideas. So?" House waited expectantly.

"Um. I guess... could be leukoencephalopathy."

House nodded. "Wouldn't normally present this suddenly, but worth a shot. Thirteen, get an LP and book another MRI. Taub, rule out fungal meningitis."

"I thought you said-" Thirteen began, before swiftly being cut off.

"What I said is that the tests ruled out fungi, not that they weren't there. Run 'em again." Thirteen opened her mouth as if to argue, then seemingly thought better of it and followed Taub out of the conference room. Chase looked up, arms folded, awaiting instruction. House narrowed his eyes and stared back. Chase narrowed his in return. A few seconds of awkward silence ensued.

"And I'm supposed to be...?" Chase questioned.

"You", said House, "are supposed to be telling me what got you so hot and bothered in the cafeteria before. Thirteen use her womanly wiles on you?" He focused his gaze on the younger doctor, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Womanly- what are you talking about?" Chase scoffed with incredulity. "I'm not interested in her and she's not interested in me."

"Good job. Imagine the humiliation of being left for another woman. So, are you gonna share with the class why you left so flustered?"

Chase leaned forwards, sighing. "If you must know, I had to get to the bathroom pretty quickly. My stomach was not happy." He'd long since learned that the best way to lie to House was to tell fragments of the truth; he always saw through outright falsehoods. "I don't think you want the gory details."

House contorted his face into a grimace. "Yeah, I'll pass." He paused. "You better tell me if you have butt cancer, though. Dead employees are a lot of paperwork and I'd like to be prepared. Now, go help Thirteen with the MRI." House lifted his cane and pointed towards the corridor.

Chase rolled his eyes. "I do not have, as you so eloquently put it, 'butt cancer'. I am dealing with a pretty big pain in the arse right now though", he snapped, stalking out and leaving House slightly shocked at the venom in which his last words had been coated. He stared at the Australian as he disappeared down the hallway. The mystery was not over; it had barely begun.

* * *

Chase lay awake that night, tossing and turning, unable to rest. He was bothered by the fact that his boss clearly saw through his façade of stability. He was bothered by the fact that he'd broken his own rule not to throw up at work. Most of all, he was bothered by how quickly the very thing that made him feel in control was starting to spiral out of control. His stomach growled. He half-heartedly groaned, rolled over, and tried to clear the static in his brain that seemed to be becoming a permanent fixture.

* * *

He wasn't an idiot. As a doctor, he was acutely aware of the damage that repeated purging could do to his health. They'd had ED cases before (not that he had an eating disorder, of course not, that would be ridiculous) and he'd seen how devastating it could get. Patients missing all their teeth, in multi organ failure and too weak to sit up. Patients far too fat or far too thin, the strain almost too much for their bodies to handle. Patients who took it too far one too many times and ended up dead on their bathroom floors with a ruptured stomach and no dignity. But he absolutely wasn't like them. He just happened to be engaging in a behaviour that some of them happened to engage in. He was an intelligent, attractive, well spoken man with decent self esteem and a good grasp on reality. People like him didn't get eating disorders. He just had to be careful, that's all.

If he was being honest with himself, he'd already noticed subtle signs that his body was not best pleased with his new habit. His throat was now constantly scratchy, and he'd taken to always having breath mints on hand to mask any telltale bad breath. When he ate anything more than a bag of chips, he'd feel a deep discomfort in his abdomen. When he didn't eat, he felt cleaner, purer somehow, but he also felt somewhat detached; slightly to the left of reality, hazed. It wasn't that he wanted to starve himself - he enjoyed food and was comfortable with his weight - he'd just discovered that the more he brought up his meals, the more he felt the need to do so whenever he ate. And he'd already been making more trips to the bathrooms at PPTH than he felt wholly at ease with. So keeping food intake to a minimum seemed a sensible way to combat that. _Not a problem if I'm in control of it._

That's how he'd found himself one Thursday afternoon, running on two granola bars and enough black coffee to keep an elephant alert, sat on the couch in the Diagnostics office. It had been three weeks since the first time he'd made himself sick at work, and with the knowledge House was getting suspicious of his odd behaviour at mealtimes, he wanted to keep any of that to a minimum. Pressing a hand to his forehead, he blew out a long breath, leaning forwards.

"Late night?" Taub walked in. "Me too. Damn construction across the street from us. Who the hell uses a power drill at 4am, anyway?"

"Mm."

The older doctor glanced over. "You okay, man?" Chase was somewhat paler than usual, his body hunched forwards and stiff. "Need another coffee?"

Chase lowered his hand from his temples and gently shook his head. "I'm good. Nasty headache. Good night's sleep should take care of it." Taub was unconvinced, but sensing that the Australian didn't want to divulge the issue, he left it there, collecting his coat in preparation for heading home.

Realising how late it had gotten, Chase gingerly got to his feet, resolving to have a substantial dinner tonight. His intent was not to punish himself or end up seriously ill - or worse - and on a rational level he knew food was necessary if he wished to continue functioning at his job. As he bent forward to pick up his bag, the static in his visual field intensified, and before he could even think to sit back down, the world went white.

From the doorway, Taub heard a soft thump, and turned around, horrified to see Chase slumped over on the carpet. He rushed over.

"Chase? Chase, can you hear me?" He gently nudged the younger man, relieved to see him shift slightly. "Chase? I think you passed out. I'm gonna page for help. You're alright."

Chase was aware of a voice, vaguely registering it as belonging to his co-worker. At hearing of his intentions to page for help, he attempted to protest, his body letting out nothing but a groan in place of words.

_Fuck_ , he thought.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall warnings apply, but just as a heads up, this chapter contains slightly more detail regarding ED issues than previous ones.

"Are you gonna check that?"

House's pager had gone off twice in the past few minutes, and he continued to resolutely ignore it, feet on Wilson's coffee table, absorbed in his game console.

"It's after five. Only pages I answer after five are from that hot young doctor down in rheumatology when she wants a quickie in the store cupboard, and I gotta headache tonight."

Wilson frowned. "It could be important! It could be a patient."

"Don't have any."

"Okay, fine. But if you're just gonna let it keep beeping, could you go and ignore it somewhere else? I have all this to get through before I leave". He gestured to the not-insignificant stack of papers on his desk.

House lifted his legs down and sighed dramatically. "I see how it is. Dying six year olds take precedent over our precious time together? Ah well, c'est la vie. Those damn cancer kids. I'd better be getting home to my hot date anyway." House made his way towards the door.

"By 'hot date' I'm assuming you mean TiVo and beer?"

"Bang on."

Wilson half-smiled, glancing up from his files. "See you tomorrow, House."

"Night." Not bothering to close the door, he strode off down the corridor, humming to himself. As he approached the conference room, he was bemused to see two figures seated on the floor next to the whiteboard. He increased his pace slightly.

Swinging open the door with the tip of his cane, House was even more baffled at the sight of Taub, kneeling and holding a glass of water, and Chase, white as a sheet and somewhat unceremoniously positioned, one leg pulled up to his chest and the other resting on the floor.

"Chase managed to convert you to Catholicism in the past half-hour? Impressive, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be kneeling at an altar."

An irate Taub ignored the jibe. "Where the hell were you? I paged you three times. Chase passed out."

"I'm completely fine", insisted Chase, who was clearly anything but.

House raised an eyebrow at Taub. "Oh I see, it wasn't religion. He's got you into BDSM! Crushing the windpipe is a rookie mistake."

" _House_. He just stood up and..." He raised his arm and then dropped it. "Whoa, take it easy", he warned, as Chase attempted to get to his feet.

"Seriously, I'm fine now. I didn't eat enough today and I'm probably a little dehydrated." Easing himself down onto a chair, he gestured to Taub for the glass and downed the water in one. "Decent grub and a good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain."

"Are you sure? You got no other symptoms or anything?", Taub asked, clearly concerned, but less so now the younger doctor was coherent and (mostly) mobile again. "If you're coming down with something-"

Chase cut him off. "No other symptoms", he insisted. "Just a severe pasta deficiency." He half-chuckled at his own joke, but the laugh was void of any amusement. He stood, and Taub passed him his bag from the floor. "Thanks for the assistance."

Taub nodded. "I can walk you down to your car if you-"

"No", Chase said firmly. "Thanks". He glanced at House, who on the surface seemed entirely unconcerned, but it was clear the cogs in his brain were moving. "Night."

As the Aussie disappeared out of the doorway, Taub turned to House. "You think he's alright?"

House gazed at the disappearing figure in the distance. He paused for a moment. "I'm not sure." Things were starting to click into place in his brain, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was pleased about it.

* * *

Chase was furious with himself. _Fucking hell. How did I manage to screw up that badly? Fucking HELL._ As he unlocked his apartment door, still vaguely lightheaded, he reaffirmed his earlier decision to have some dinner and keep it down. However addicting the rush was from feeling clean and empty, however intoxicating the high felt, he was more than intelligent enough to know the steps he needed to take to prevent severe illness, or worse, the suspicion of others. He prepared a simple meal of pasta with ham and sweetcorn, and washed it down with a glass of orange juice. For the first time in several weeks, Chase went to bed with at least some food in his stomach. Uncomfortable, but too exhausted to care much, he completed his evening routines then fell into bed. Sleep came quickly.

* * *

The rather meagre portion of food he'd kept down proved to not be sufficient when he awoke, sweaty and shaky, at 4:23am. _God_ , he was hungry. Unable to focus on anything but the gnawing sensation in his abdomen, Chase stumbled out of bed, eyes still sticky with sleep, and began searching the kitchen. Since he'd started eating less at work, his cupboards had become sparser, with snacks and foods to graze on few and far between. _I could make a sandwich_ , he thought, reaching for the loaf of bread on the counter top. 

He wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but suddenly his hand was in the bag and his hand was at his mouth and the bread was in his mouth and the bread was going down his throat and he couldn't taste or think-

_I'm so, so hungry._

Cereal. He poured the Cornflakes haphazardly into a bowl, not wasting time on milk or spoons, simply grabbing them by the handful and forcing them down. They scratched and burned. He took the remaining orange juice from the refrigerator, chugging from the carton, gagging from the acidity. 

_God. I need more._

Chunks of ham from the fridge, too. Three cupcakes he'd been saving for a special occasion. More bread. The sunflower seeds he'd bought and never touched. Half a pack of chocolate chip cookies. Chase was barely aware of his actions, frenzied and urgent, and _I'm so hungry_ and _oh God_ and _it hurts_ and suddenly he was on the tiles and the toilet smelt of vomit and orange juice and his nose was bleeding and he couldn't think. 

He slept on the bathroom floor that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to those leaving kudos - I've written a lot of fanfiction before, but not for many years and not for House, so it feels somewhat new again! Any reviews or constructive criticism are very appreciated.


	5. Chapter Five

"Hi, it's Robert Chase from Diagnostics here. Um, I think I've got some sort of bug, so I won't be coming in today. Should be feeling better by tomorrow, uh, I hope. Okay, thanks."

* * *

Wilson was startled (but not wholly unsurprised) by the three heavy raps on his office door; the familiar sound of wood on wood. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes in front of the elderly woman sat in front of him.

"With a patient!"

"Need a consult." House swung open the door and leaned against the frame.

"Dr House" - Wilson felt it necessary to confirm to his patient that this man was in fact a medical professional - "Could this wait five minutes until I'm done with Mrs Browning?" He smiled apologetically across at the woman, then pointedly up at the other doctor.

"I mean, I guess it could, but General Hospital starts in fifteen, and I'm a busy man."

"I - Mrs Browning, I'm very sorry for the interruption", Wilson said through gritted teeth. "If you don't have any more questions regarding the medication change, I think we can follow up in a couple weeks after your MRI."

House gave a smile dripping in faux sincerity. "I don't think she has any more questions, do you, Mrs Burton?"

"It's Browning-"

The elderly woman looked back and forth in confusion between the two men. She nodded nervously. "Um, no, I'll, uh, leave you to it. Thank you, Dr Wilson."

As his patient stood and exited the office, Wilson lay his head in his hands. "I'd just been telling her that her chemo wasn't having the desired effect." He sighed. "What is it this time? You want another $100 to bet on your patient? Because you still owe me that $50 from the guy with the Barbie doll up his ass."

"I told you, I needed a consult."

"Yeah, but nine times out of ten when you say that, you're-"

"Differential for fatigue, syncope, and mysterious bathroom trips", House stated simply.

Wilson stood from his seat, pushing past House to close the office door. "I'm assuming you've ruled out all the usual suspects?"

"Nope."

"Had you considered that as a starting point?"

House exhaled slowly through his nose, as if about to explain a simple concept to a five year old. "Pretty sure I'd have done that if it was an option."

Wilson was baffled. "How is it not an option? As far as I know Cuddy hasn't revoked your treatment privileges, although goodness knows she'd have every reason to after the debacle last month."

"Can't treat someone who isn't my patient."

"If they're not your patient why the hell are you here?!" Wilson threw his arms in the air before running one hand through his hair, exasperated yet unsurprised by House's attitude. It was like trying to get blood out of a stone. "Those are common symptoms you listed, I doubt another doctor would- oh. It's Chase. It's Chase, isn't it?" He shook his head. "Had it not occurred to you to ask him yourself?"

House raised an eyebrow. "What, and give him the appearance that I actually give a damn? Can't be having that."

"Aha! That means you DO give a damn!" Wilson straightened up triumphantly. "You care about him!"

"Not what I said at all", House huffed. "Anyway, differential?"

The oncologist sat down slowly on the edge of the sofa. "I mean, most likely culprits would be some kind of vitamin deficiency, or maybe some kind of IBS? That'd explain bathroom visits." He looked up expectantly at House, who was staring out of the window, lips pressed together into a thin line. "Could be psychosomatic too - he's been under a lot of pressure lately, especially what with Cameron and the divorce... what is it, House?"

House turned and lowered himself onto the other sofa cushion, wincing as he did so. "Breath mints."

"I... What?"

"Chase has been carrying breath mints around. Started about a month ago. Never seen him with 'em before then." His voice was measured, but Wilson had known him long enough to understand his drawn expression meant there was genuine concern buried deep somewhere. Then it clicked.

"You think... You think he's making himself sick? Intentionally?"

It makes sense." House cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Dunno though - I know he looks like a pubescent girl, but didn't expect him to go the whole hog and start acting like one too." He smirked, but there was no joy behind it.

Wilson sat up a little straighter. "Look, I don't know if you're barking up the right tree here or not. But knowing you, you probably are, and if that's the case you have to remember that this kind of thing affects people from all walks of life. It's not... Just because someone's a guy, or an adult, or even a doctor - it doesn't make them immune to self destructive behaviour." He pointedly made eye contact with House.

"Oh, come on, this is not the same as me! I'm in pain", he spat.

Wilson nodded slightly. "I know. And if you're right, I think Chase is, too. Just maybe a different kind."

House gave Wilson a look he saw often; a look that said, 'I know you're right but I'm not going to verbalise that thought', and Wilson understood. Getting to his feet unsteadily, House grabbed his cane from the coffee table, giving Wilson a half-smile as he headed towards the door. "Gotta run. Today we find out if Nurse Kaylee is having an affair with the babysitter's brother. Thanks for the consult. " And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Chase had spent the morning in bed, nursing a killer headache. His memories of the night before were hazy, but the carnage he found in his kitchen when he finally emerged in search of coffee confirmed he'd certainly lost control. Simultaneously horrified and unable to care, he tidied the debris of packets and crumbs, unable to focus fully thanks to his head. He spent the rest of the day grazing on cereal, reading medical journals, and watching mindless daytime television, still feeling somewhat dazed from the intensity of the early hours.

_Cannot lose control like that again_ , he thought. _The whole damn_ point _is control_. _House is already suspicious, and I can't risk another episode like that at work_. He made a mental note to discreetly draw some of his own blood, make sure his electrolytes weren't too off-balance. _This isn't a disorder if I can stay in control._

Chase had repeated this mantra to himself frequently, and yet somehow, despite his best efforts, he kept finding himself on his knees in the bathroom. Today was no different. He knew, somewhere on a logical level, that it was cognitive dissonance, that his grip on control was slipping, that it would continue to slip. Nevertheless, the other voice in his head - the one desperately clinging on to the illusion of control through food - that was the voice that prevailed, drowning out the sense.

Later that evening, he stepped on his bathroom scales, acutely aware that his clothes had begun to hang looser in recent weeks. Chase wasn't bothered by his weight - he'd started vaguely keeping track of it when he began working out a couple years earlier. While he'd never admit it, his past jibes at overweight patients had genuinely been triggered by a heavy set bully from his youth, who'd mocked him mercilessly for being too feminine, too weak, too girly. He thought he'd taken it in his stride, but home life hadn't been ideal then, and what with his father-

_No_.

Chase swallowed and forced the swirling thoughts back down, as deep down as he could. He wouldn't let his brain go there. Dragging himself off the couch, he resolved to be back at PPTH first thing tomorrow, to help alleviate any suspicion that he'd been less than honest with his stomach bug tale. Plus, all this moping around the house was taking his mind to places he'd much rather it wasn't. The broken blood vessels on his cheeks and the raw patches on his knuckles were fading.  _Back to normal now_ , he thought.  _Back to being in control._   



	6. Chapter Six

"The prodigal son returns", remarked House, as Chase pushed open the door to the diagnostics office. "You're early."

Chase didn't respond, save for a slight glance in the older man's direction. He busied himself with shifting and sorting through the stack of files that had been inelegantly left on his usual chair, presumably in his absence. He acknowledged Taub and Thirteen with a small nod to both.

"Hey man, you feeling better?" Taub inquired, smiling but his voice infused with slight concern. He laughed. "Gotta say you freaked me out a little the other day."

"Mm, all good now. Do we have a case?" He gestured to the pile of papers now spread across the table.

Thirteen sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hand. "Nope. He wants us to do his clinic duty so he can focus on his next big Wilson prank. What the hell are you even planning that you need twenty pounds of confetti and a _cement mixer_ for?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out through the inevitable local news reports on it." House frowned. "Or maybe police reports. Depends how he takes it."

Chase felt a combination of amusement and relief at whatever the long-suffering Wilson would next have sprung upon him, and the fact no-one - namely House - was pushing for the details of his supposed brief illness. He was aware of House's eyes boring into him as he spoke, but that wasn't uncommon - he'd have been more concerned if he'd been ignored completely. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms.

"Even if you're foisting your clinic hours on us, there's three of us. What are the rest of us meant to do?"

"Pfft, the more the merrier. Which, coincidentally, is also my life's motto for-"

"We get it." Thirteen cut House off. "And you don't need three doctors per patient in the clinic."

House huffed loudly. "Fine. Thirteen, as you're clearly so passionate about the quality of care there, you can do my hours. Taub, you can..." He filled his cheeks with air, exhaling slowly. "You can tidy the storage closet down the hall."

"But I did that last w-"

"I know, I know. But it gets messy _so_ fast, and I like seeing you try and reach the top shelves."

Rolling his eyes, Taub followed Thirteen out of the office. Chase was perched on the edge of his chair, awaiting instruction. He waited. And waited. The tension in the room built.

"And what is it I'm meant to be doing, then?" Chase raised an eyebrow across the table. "Or are you just gonna sit there and stare at me all morning?"

"You," House lifted his cane, dramatically brandishing it across the table, "are going to tell me where the hell you were yesterday."

"I was off sick - you know that. I rang in."

"I know that, you idiot." He pulled his chair closer to the table. "I want to know _why_ you were sick."

Chase pulled what he hoped was a sufficiently bemused expression. " _Why_ I was sick? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware bodies needed a reason to get arsey every once in a while."

"Oh, come on." House scoffed. "Don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well what was wrong with you, and you know that I know."

Aware he couldn't let any uneasiness show, Chase steeled himself for the inevitable cross examination from the head of Diagnostics. He forced a chuckle and straightened up in his seat. "Oh yeah? What do you think you know? I ate some dodgy food. Thrilling story, I know."

House groaned. "Jesus, you're a terrible liar. I hate dishonesty, y'know? It's almost enough to make me sick." He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not the only one, either."

Internally, Chase was floundering, but he willed himself to keep it together. Deep down he knew that House had him sussed, and the truth coming out was inevitable, but he desperately hoped he could delay it as long as possible.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but you do. Didn't want anyone to find out that Mr. Well-Adjusted British Dreamboat has been-" He mimed sticking his fingers down his throat. "I know you have a huge ego, but I didn't think-"

"I don't know what the fuck you think you know, but you're wrong." Chase knew his voice was a few notches too loud, his breathing a little too heavy, but he couldn't bring himself to adjust. "I had _food poisoning_. You're deluding yourself into finding something wrong with me because you don't have a case and you're bored. I'm not interested in playing." With that, he stood up and stalked out of the room.

House didn't try and follow.

* * *

Chase was pacing the floor of the empty doctors' lounge, running his hands through his hair, desperately trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to get House off his case when he'd already hit the nail on the head. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he thought. _Not only did he figure me out in no time at all, but I've gone and all but confirmed it with my ridiculous response_. He collapsed on the sofa with his head in his hands, exhaling loudly. Amongst the overwhelming frustration he felt - at both House and himself - Chase found himself wondering why exactly this was bothering him so much, when he could just stop it all now. _It's a control thing, so if it's in my control, I can choose to stop it, and then House has no ammo_. Why was this idea so distressing? It was simple. He'd decided to start this little... habit; he could just as easily decide to disengage. Couldn't he? Glancing at his watch, he realised he'd been gone for almost an hour - however much he wanted to avoid House, he didn't want to risk being reported to Cuddy and end up with _her_ blowing everything up out of proportion too. He took several deep breaths, and willed himself to be calm. Taub would be back at the office by now, and whilst House was an ass, Chase was fairly confident (or did he just hope?) he wouldn't say anything incriminating in front of the other fellows. He could do this. There was always a solution. _It's not a problem. I'm in control of all of this._

Apprehensive, but relieved to see Thirteen and Taub both hunched over a pile of paperwork, and House nowhere in sight, Chase approached the glass panels. He shook his head slightly, as if to force off any nervous energy, and entered. Taub was the first to look up.

"Check this out. Thirteen saw a guy in the clinic who'd swallowed twenty-six Lego bricks over the past two days. Where have you been?"

Even through the still bubbling anxiety in the pit of his stomach, Chase was impressed. "Took my break early. Twenty-six? Damn. That's almost a whole room of a Lego house."

"He said he liked the bumpy sensation as they went down his esophagus", Thirteen said, incredulous. "He'll need surgery, and obviously I referred him for a psych consult, but he'll be fine. Hence us laughing at him."

"Huh." The unpredictability of the human race never failed to amaze Chase. "Where's House?"

"Cuddy's office", Taub responded. "She got wind of his confetti prank thing. Oh, and he said that after lunch, you're taking over his clinic duty. Says he needs Thirteen for sexual favours."

Chase sighed. "Sounds about right." He already knew he couldn't risk purging on hospital grounds - not after earlier - so he knew he'd have to eat his lunch, and grin and bear the discomfort. Besides, House would probably find some creative way of watching him eat, even if Cuddy was still chastising him. He checked his watch - twenty eight minutes til lunch. He sat down. "Tell me more about this Lego dude, then."

* * *

After he'd forced down a mediocre cafeteria sandwich (plus a sports drink in the hopes of keeping his electrolytes in check), Chase headed out to the clinic. It was a tedious assignment, especially when they weren't even his hours, but he'd known House wouldn't let things lie after earlier. He resigned himself to sucking up for however long it took everything to blow over; in the grand scheme of things, clinic hours weren't too bad. He adjusted his coat, cleared his throat, and entered Room Two.

He had to swallow back an exclamation when his eyes fell on the examination table,and the girl - no, the woman - perched on the edge of it. She was visibly underweight, with sunken cheeks, thinning hair, clothes far too thick for that time of year, and she was bouncing her foot up and down repeatedly. Chase wasn't naïve - he'd seen many patients with eating disorders throughout his career, and especially at this stage the tell tale signs were obvious - but he knew instantly that House had set him up for this to happen. A glance at the chart confirmed his suspicions. _Chronic anorexia nervosa. History of hospitalisation for myocardial infarction and severe malnutrition. Patient appears treatment resistant._ Chase took a deep, shaky breath before smiling at the woman.

"Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Chase. How can I help you today?"

He was going to kill House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, left kudos, or commented! I really appreciate it and it motivates me to keep writing. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, hence the long time it took me to update, so if it's below par I'm very sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?!" Chase thundered into House's office, his breathing shallow. He was greeted with wide, innocent eyes from behind the desk.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, fuck off. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Setting me up with clinic duty with a - with an ED patient just because you've got this crazy idea in your head that that's me?! I'm-" Chase cut himself off mid sentence, running a shaking hand through his hair.

"See, the thing is," House stood from his desk chair, "If this is just a _crazy idea_ of mine, then why are you so shaken up, huh? Seems to me like it's bothering you deeply." He walked over to his armchair, eyes not leaving Chase's.

"Look, I know you like screwing with people, but please. Leave this alone. You're wrong, but even if you weren't, it wouldn't be any of your goddamn business."

House chewed his lip thoughtfully. After a short silence, he spoke. "Okay. So I'm wrong. I must be mistaken about the breath mints you've suddenly taken to popping like me with Vicodin before rehab, and how often you vanish to the restroom just before your lunch break ends and you return minty-fresh as ever. I must have misinterpreted the weight loss that's gotta be, what, 10lbs? 15? Not fast enough that you're exclusively starving yourself, but enough that something's changed. The way your meals in the cafeteria are either non-existent, or so carb laden that Mr Creosote would shy away from them. The fact that lately you've switched to wearing a lab coat two sizes bigger than normal, either to hide aforementioned weight loss, or maybe so it hangs low enough on your arms to cover the calluses forming on your knuckles. Not to mention your little fainting trick you pulled the other day. Oh, and the sudden phobia of anorexic clinic patients. Yup, totally get how I could have got all that mixed up." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Chase was quiet for a very long time. He stood, balling his hands into fists then releasing them, over and over. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low it took House a second to realise what he'd said.

"It isn't an eating disorder."

"Hm. I think the DSM-IV would disagree with you on that."

Chase was silent again, but this time when he opened his mouth he spoke a little louder, although his voice wavered. "It's not... I know it's not healthy. I know it's not an ideal coping mechanism. But it's not like it's... I don't wanna lose weight, or gain it, or whatever. It just - everything's just seemed harder lately. Since Cameron, and Dibala, and... It's something I can control." His voice cracked on the last word, his face drawn with anxiety but also etched with defeat.

It was House's turn to be quiet for several moments now. "You do know that wanting to establish control is, like, _textbook_ eating disorder behaviour, right?" His words were flippant, but he sounded somewhat gentler, a fraction more understanding. Chase couldn't decide if he felt relief at this, or if he wanted to scream at the fact he was apparently so pitiable that even _House_ felt sorry for him.

"It's different. People with disorders have no control over themselves. I can stop whenever I want."

House raised an eyebrow. "Okay then; stop."

"I- what?"

"If it's within your control, I'm asking you to stop. As your boss, I need my doctors in the best physical state they can be - don't want you accidentally killing any more dictators because you're shaking from a potassium deficiency." House clasped his hands together in his lap.

Chase looked somewhat taken aback, and more than a little pissed off. "Why is it any of your business what I do with my body? It doesn't impact my work, it doesn't impact you or the team, or- you have no right to tell me what to do!" He was getting worked up, fingernails digging into his palms. House stood up.

"If it impacts you, it impacts me. I don't wanna visit the men's room one day and find you've choked to death on your own puke because you couldn't control yourself at work."

Swiftly turning on his heels, Chase stormed towards the door. He briefly turned as his hand touched the panel. "Fuck you", he spat, and with that he was gone. House exhaled and chewed his lip. Chase was right to an extent - he couldn't control him - but he wasn't stupid; he knew the younger doctor was on a slippery slope, and who knew how far down the bottom was?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed so far! I know this is a short one - I hope to have the next one up much sooner though, so this is just a bit of filler. Hope you're all well!


	8. Chapter Eight

Chase spent the next several days resolutely ignoring House at every available opportunity; he was unusually quiet during differentials, and spent lunch breaks in the ER doctors' lounge. Their heated encounter in House's office had left him shaken, and he was deeply frustrated with himself for trusting anyone else with his 'secret'. There was something that left him feeling raw and exposed, knowing that he'd admitted something so deeply private and personal - and to his boss, of all people. _What was I thinking?_ He'd berated himself multiple times over that afternoon, equal parts angry at his House for being - well, _House_ \- and himself, for letting his mask slip. Knowing he was likely being spied on one way or another (he was certain he'd noticed Taub giving him funny looks across the cafeteria the day before), he firmly committed to his plans not to make any impromptu bathroom trips at work.

Unfortunately, he'd grown used to the hollow, empty feeling that followed a purge, and any amount of food he ate, however meagre, felt like a ton of bricks in his abdomen. House - as always - had been scarily accurate when he'd estimated Chase's weight loss. He felt torn: as a doctor ( _and a normal, sane person_ , he reminded himself) he was aware that losing too much more weight would tip him over into the 'underweight' range. That really wasn't his aim. On the other hand, the only other way to achieve that empty, floaty feeling was to simply not eat.

* * *

"Mind if I sit here?"

Taub's voice cut through the general hubbub of the cafeteria, rousing Chase from his daydreams. He was grateful that the team had been inundated with cases lately - it meant there was less time for House to spend psychoanalysing him without even saying a word. ( _And less downtime when I can be tempted by_ _overindulging myself_ , he'd found himself thinking in the queue for his espresso.) He glanced up at the other man. "Sure."

Taub placed his tray down, almost spilling his coffee as he did. Chase's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the hefty portion of cheesecake that sat in front of him.

"Looks good, huh? You tried it?"

Chase shook his head. "Bit sugary for me." He sipped from the paper cup, wincing as the liquid burned his tongue. He truly wasn't a fan of the cake the hospital's cafeteria served, and yet he couldn't help but eye the dessert as his colleague tucked in.

Through half a mouthful of cream, Taub spoke. "Weird case, huh? I dunno about you, but I don't trust the parents."

"Very weird", Chase agreed. The kid had developed a full body rash after a simple fall off a swingset, and they were four days, three misdiagnoses, and two very angry parents into trying to solve it.

There was a prolonged, not-quite-comfortable silence, in which Chase and Taub sipped their respective coffees and tried not to make awkward eye contact.

"So." Taub cleared his throat. "Um, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine; why wouldn't I be?", he snapped back.

"Woah, okay, it's called small talk." Pushing his cheesecake around the plate with his fork, he continued nonetheless. "You sure? You've seemed a little off lately."

Chase's suspicions that his boss had blabbed were all but confirmed. "House ask you to babysit me, did he? I am a grown man, you know."

"He didn't -" Taub started, then seemingly realised lying would be useless. "I think he's worried about you, and House worrying about someone is enough to make me worry too."

Chase was incensed. "Fucking fantastic," he snarled, "now everyone knows everything. I thought he'd have the decency to keep his mouth shut. Tosser." He looked across at the other man, who had somewhat of a rabbit-caught-in-headlights expression on his face.

"Chase, he didn't tell us _why_ he wanted us to keep an eye on you. Well, he said it was because he had a growing suspicion you were sleeping with Wilson, but you know what he- oh my god, you're not sleeping with Wilson, are you?"

Chase found himself caught somewhere between a laugh and a choke. Frustration and relief bubbled up in equal measure. "My God. No, I'm not sleeping with Wilson." He leant his head against his hand. "Seriously though, I'm _fine_. You know what he's like - he's probably got some kind of dumb bet on. Nothing to worry about."

Taub gave a crooked smile. "I'm not entirely sure that I believe you - about the being fine, not the Wilson thing - but I get the message. But if you do ever need to talk-"

"I don't. Thanks." Standing up swiftly (and hoping Taub didn't pick up on the split second his vision went black as he did so), Chase grabbed his half-drunk coffee and left the cafeteria. He felt somewhat bad for snubbing the older man, as it was clear he was just concerned, but he'd had enough meddling from colleagues that week to last a lifetime. That, and the smell of the chicken salad from the neighbouring table was making him nauseous.

That was an unexpected side effect of vomiting most of the food you ate, he'd discovered. Chase was a creature of habit, often having the same meal several nights running, and it turned out that throwing up half-digested poultry three times a week led to an almost Pavlovian reaction. The smell of it now turned his stomach. It'd be funny if it wasn't so grim, he'd thought to himself on more than one occasion. All the blood, sweat, and tears that went into inducing vomiting in oneself, and now his body wanted to puke the one time he didn't? Ironic.

* * *

Having fielded more of the same curiosity thinly disguised as concern from Thirteen, Chase was relieved when the day finally ended. Other than the usual 'staring into your soul' thing House usually did being slightly more frequent, he'd been acting almost worryingly normal. He hoped with every fibre of his being that the ever-observant man would realise he was no longer disappearing to the restroom most lunchtimes, and that his knuckles were no longer red raw, that he no longer carried Tic Tacs in his coat pocket. He'd understand that Chase had just had a temporary blip, a flirtation with a maladaptive coping strategy, and now he was back on the straight and narrow. Chase hoped House would understand all that. But given that none of it was true, he wasn't sure.

Purging with a toothbrush somehow didn't have that same, visceral feeling that using his hands did, but it was a small price to pay to avoid that telltale sign. A strategically placed mostly-full mints packet in the office bin should fool House. And really, as long as he ate as little as possible during work hours, it was not all that tricky to save the whole ritual for home only. In fact, the knowledge that he could stage this faux-recovery while not really changing a thing gave him almost as much of an endorphin rush as the act of purging itself. He could trick everyone.

Of course, it didn't end up working like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, another huge thanks to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, or left kudos! It makes me v v happy. I hope the story continues to be adequate, and that you're all keeping well.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a fair amount of discussion of child sexual abuse. It is non explicit and non graphic, but it is talked about, so please take care while reading.

The downside, Chase had discovered, to feeling totally empty inside, was the fact that the thoughts that had been methodically stuffed into the deepest recesses of his brain seemed to be starting to spill out into all that space. The more detached from his body he felt, the more he found himself ruminating. This was not ideal.

It wasn't like the team hadn't had sexual abuse cases before. Children, adults, one time assaults, long term trauma - it was part and parcel of their job to delve into people's darkest issues in search of a diagnosis. Chase specifically remembered Eve, the rape survivor House had so adamantly _not_ wanted to treat a few years ago. From time to time, he wondered if maybe it wasn't his self awareness of his misanthropic personality that put him off; if maybe, House himself had gone through something similar. _It'd certainly explain a lot_ , he'd thought.

With all that in mind, Chase couldn't quite put his finger on why their latest case was getting to him more than usual. Eleven year old boy with unexplained seizures, hair loss, and renal failure. In the custody of his grandfather, who, two days into their investigations (thanks to an astute Thirteen), had been arrested and promptly charged with things that didn't bear thinking about.

_I was eleven_. Chase couldn't stop the sentence from clawing its way out from the back of his brain.

He hadn't thought consciously about any of that nonsense in years. Not since he'd moved to the States, at least. Thinking only led to feeling, which far too often led to acting in ways he'd really rather not. (Of course, he wasn't exactly acting in healthy ways right now.) He'd bundled any lingering memories into a metaphorical chest and firmly closed the lid. A Pandora's box of shittiness. Any personal connections he'd forged with terms like 'sexual violence' or 'molestation' or 'post traumatic stress' had been severed before they'd even had a chance to form; those phrases elicited about the same level of emotional response as 'table' or 'car dealership'. It was like it never happened.

That was how it had been up until this case, anyway. House and the team were in the conference room winding down for the day - after finally pinning down the right diagnosis and prescribing a course of antivirals, their young patient had been discharged into the care of social services mid-afternoon.

"I hate the human race sometimes", Taub sighed, thumbing through the case notes. "That poor kid."

Thirteen hummed in agreement. "Some pig cares more about getting his rocks off than another human being, and now a child is fucked up for life."

Chase shifted in his seat. His mind still hadn't quieted, so he'd been planning to stay out of any post-case dissection, but he couldn't help speaking up. "Not necessarily fucked up for life. Kids are resilient."

"Chase, he was being _abused_ by a family member. God knows how long it'll take him to work through that, if ever."

House, who had been busying himself writing haikus in pig Latin on the board, sauntered over. "Oh ye of little faith," he prodded Thirteen with his cane. Turning and raising an eyebrow at Chase, he continued. "But wow, I'd have thought the child of an alcoholic would have a little more empathy for a traumatised kid."

Chase desperately wanted to yell _you don't know the half of it or shut the fuck up you insensitive bastard_ or something in a similar vein, but he knew that was not an option. So he gritted his teeth and went with, "I just don't want to write off someone who isn't even a teenager yet, just because some shitty things happened to them. There's therapies and support networks for kids who-"

"Oh, and you're so well adjusted, right?"

Chase shot a warning glance at the older doctor, and mercifully he didn't continue.

"I'm just relieved he's out of that environment now," Taub sighed.

Thirteen scoffed. "Like the foster care system is gonna be any better for him."

"Anything's gotta be better than the situation he was in before, right?"

Chase found himself getting increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. _God, what is wrong with me_? He could handle this stuff. At least, he could before. A prompt exit was in order, he decided. He had to get a grip before he ended up freaking out - House knowing about the purging was one thing; he absolutely couldn't risk incriminating himself in any other way.

"I'm gonna grab a coffee. Night, everyone."

Sitting alone at a grimy table with his cappuccino, Chase mulled over what had changed to trigger this sudden inability to handle those sort of cases with ease. _It doesn't make sense for it to be this whole thing with food_ , he thought. _The whole point is that controlling what goes in and comes out sharpens my focus_. He couldn't deny that in recent days, however, it almost felt as if the tables were being turned - as if slowly but surely, he was losing his grasp on the thing he was clinging to so tightly for control. That scared him. He mentally shook himself, reminding himself that no, he was very much in control. A child being abused would shake anyone's resolve - no need to think any more about it. Thankfully, the workday had ended, and now he could finish the dregs of his coffee, drive home, and play out his normal evening routine. Safe. Secure. Familiar.

"Dr Chase."

He twisted in his seat as Cuddy came to a standstill by the table, hands wrapped around a drink of her own.

"Dr Cuddy," Chase acknowledged her with a nod. "Patient was discharged earlier."

Cuddy gave a reserved smile, clearly preoccupied. "I heard. I was just up at the office, actually. I thought you all might want to know that one of your old cases was admitted to the ER this morning, and sadly passed away."

Chase's heart sank. It wasn't entirely uncommon for previous patient to die, given the nature of their work, but it never made it any easier. Especially on a day like today.

"Damn. I'm sorry to hear that. Which patient?"

"Carly Forlano."

Chase screwed up his brow. The name rang a vague bell. "Forlano? I'm trying to recall the specifics. What did we treat her for?"

"It was several years ago; she was the girl with bulimia who needed a heart transplant. The one who House lied to the committee for," and suddenly Chase's breath was caught in his throat and he couldn't quite think.

"I... Are you serious? Is this a joke?" If House had set her up to this, he was going to _kill_ him.

Cuddy frowned. "What? No! Why would I joke about that?"

"I don't know. I just... Fuck. What happened? I thought she got better. I could have sworn she sent House a thank you letter a couple years back." He focused all his energy on stopping his hands shaking.

Cuddy sighed ruefully. "She did. We don't know the specifics yet, not until the autopsy, but it seems like she had a major relapse recently. She was found in a friend's bathroom, her stomach had ruptured. There was nothing we could do. It's tragic. What a waste."

"God," Chase breathed. "God." He had to get out of there, fast. "I'm- I'm sorry, Dr Cuddy, I have to go. I have a, uh, an appointment. Thank you for letting me know about C- about the patient." Stumbling over both his words and his feet, he grabbed his phone and stalked out of the cafeteria, biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

_Just a patient, this happens all the time, just a patient_ he repeated in his head, but it was no use. By the time he reached the main entrance he was hyperventilating. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought the words _panic attack_ , but they didn't really register. Chase made it as far as his parked car, and it took several attempts to get the key in the door with his unsteady hands.

_god this is ridiculous shit fuck oh god I can't breathe oh god carly dead the boy he's only eleven I was eleven so fucking young oh my god she's dead am I dying is this dying I can't oh god my dad no I need to eat I need to feel I feel too much what the FUCK is-_

A muffled knock, the noise of wood tapping glass, cut straight through his thoughts.

"Hey. Open up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to everyone who's reading, leaving kudos/comments, bookmarking etc! It's very appreciated.  
> Whilst this story has a plan outlined, I'm very much letting it go where it feels it wants to go, so I hope that's working. I felt we needed to get some more of Chase's journey of how he deals with growing up when you've been through that kind of thing, and whilst this remains primarily a fic about eating disorders and the effects they have on people's lives, I felt it would be remiss to not elaborate on some back story, y'know? Anyway, enough from me. Take care, everyone.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains very brief allusions to self harm and suicidal ideation.

"Hey. Open up."

Chase was startled by the noise, and sat bolt upright in his seat, his eyes wide and his breathing still wildly out of control. Fingers grasping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. House knocked again, this time with his fist.

"Seriously, open the door. If you die in there while I stand here doing nothing, Cuddy will kick my ass. And imagine the paperwork."

Desperately attempting to pull himself back off the precipice, Chase reached a trembling hand across to the door handle, opening it just enough for House to do the rest of the legwork. _House - legwork-_ he repeated in his head, and choked back a hysterical laugh amongst the gasps for air. House raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Are you okay? Well, dumb question. Let me rephrase. What the fuck is going on?" He lowered his voice. "Cuddy told you about Carly, huh?"

"Why- you don't - don't use - names," Chase tripped over his question, his erratic breathing making it impossible to string more than a couple words at once. His fingernails dug into the rubber around the steering wheel. "You don't - patients - their names -"

House cut him off. "You're sat in your car having a full blown anxiety attack and you're questioning my phrasing? Weird priorities. Hey. Breathe. Wiggle your toes against the floor and focus on the sensation."

In his panicked state, it never occurred to Chase to do anything other than obey, and he was mildly surprised to find it actually helping ground him somewhat. His death grip on the wheel eased a fraction, and he glanced warily across, to find the older man with one eyebrow quirked upwards.

"Huh. That actually works? Some bullshit they taught us in an emotional wellbeing seminar years ago. Figured it was nonsense." He half-laughed. "Seriously though. When you've stopped sounding like Muttley from Wacky Races, talk."

Focusing all his attention on getting his respiration steady, Chase gritted his teeth and rested his head on his arms. Amongst the overwhelming panic, he felt weirdly calm at the idea of his notoriously mean boss seeing him in such a vulnerable position. It was a strange feeling. A number of minutes passed before he pulled himself together enough to formulate a sentence.

"I'm - I'm okay. Sorry. Haven't had a panic attack in years. It's been a long day, and hearing that - you know, it's always sad when a patient dies."

"So it's got nothing to do with the fact that you know you're heading down the same route as she did?"

Chase stilled. "I'm not- I haven't-"

"Oh, give over," House glared at him. "You really thought it wasn't blatantly obvious that you're still chucking up half your meals?"

"How did you know?" It came out in a half-whisper. He was too drained from the anxiety to bother denying it any more.

"Didn't. Figured I'd call your bluff on it, and hey presto."

 _Fuck_ , he thought. He trained his attention on his thumbnail, running his index finger back and forth along the ridge, desperately wishing he was somewhere else, but not caring enough to do anything about it.

House cleared his throat. "Look. I'm not gonna pretend I don't think you're an idiot. Nor am I gonna act like I understand why you don't engage in a less icky form of self destruction. But I don't want to end up dealing with another dead doctor," and despite his flippancy, Chase knew this was his way of saying he cared. "Life sucks - I know that as well as anyone. Death sucks even more." Clearly uncomfortable with what was, for him, a huge display of affection, House shifted slightly in the passenger seat before awkwardly reaching across and placing his hand on the other doctor's knee.

Chase flinched.

A less astute observer might not have noticed the way he stiffened after the slight jerk away from the hand. But this was House. Quickly withdrawing his hand, he narrowed his eyes.

"Hey. What's that about?"

"Get out." Chase's voice was simultaneously shaky and strong, fearful but resolute.

"I've thrown things at you hundreds of times before; I certainly used to see Cameron get way more touchy feely, even in public. Why'd you flinch?"

"Get OUT." His voice cracked on the last syllable, and House was shocked by the distress laced in his tone.

"I'm not leaving you to drive a half ton hunk of metal when you're clearly so-" but he was cut off by a shove to his shoulder. Never had he seen Chase so on edge. "Hey! Calm down," but he didn't stop pushing.

Chase half-yelled. "I said, get OUT of my FUCKING CAR." House could see his jaw quivering, his nails digging into his thighs. He quickly decided getting out was the best course of action if he didn't want to get a punch to his leg.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting out," pushing open the door as he spoke. "It's okay." As soon as House was off the seat, Chase reached across and slammed the door shut. "Hey. You're not gonna drive off, are you? You're not in any fit state to..."

He was cut off by the aggressive revving of the engine, before the vehicle abruptly reversed and pulled out of the parking space, narrowly missing House's feet in the process. As he watched the car leave, concern overtook his frustration, and he briefly considered running after Chase, before remembering that not only did he have a bum leg, he probably couldn't outrun a motor vehicle.

"What the fuck?" he said out loud, to no one in particular.

* * *

After running at least two red lights on his drive home, and taking several wrong turns, Chase half-ran inside and began pacing his apartment. His comment to House earlier had been a white lie - he hadn't had a panic attack _in front of anyone else_ in years. The feeling of vulnerability and shame was all-encompassing. The cherry on the cake was that now House knew he was still making himself throw up. And God knows what he'd make of Chase's reaction to his simple friendly gesture.

He paced, and paced, and paced. He chewed his lower lip until he could taste blood. He opened and closed the fridge, once, twice, three times. He ran his hands through his hair, scratched at his stubble. He fingered the scars on his thigh and wondered if it would be all that bad to open them up. He remembered the mostly full bottle of Valium in his bathroom cabinet, and decided that would be drastic and messy. He bit his lip again. He thought about his dad. He thought about what happened when he was eleven. And twelve, and thirteen, and fourteen. He decided he needed to stop thinking. He opened the fridge again, and began his awful, horrible, messy ritual.

He didn't remember much of what happened after that. Even when the phone rang three times whilst he was curled, fully clothed, in the bathtub. But through the dissociative haze, he knew it had worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took longer than usual to upload! Life has a nasty habit of happening sometimes. I hope you're all keeping well, and I hope the story is still tolerable. Thanks so much to everyone leaving feedback.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chase was roused from his sleep by a quiet but insistent knocking at his door, and a soft voice.

"Shit," he mumbled to himself, as he became aware that he'd spent the whole night in a cold, dry bathtub. In yesterday's clothes. Shit. A glance at his watch confirmed it was half past ten - he was, without a doubt, deeply late, and deeply in trouble.

_Shitshitshitshitshit_.

Wincing as he unfolded himself from his foetal position in the tub and climbed out, he frantically ran a hand through his hair and hoped he looked halfway passable as a human being. Times like this he was grateful to no longer have his floppy fringe - a closely cropped cut looked a lot better after a couple days with no showering.

The knocking continued.

"Chase? Chase, open up," and he was surprised to register the voice as Wilson's. After a cursory spray of his rumpled shirt with the bathroom's air freshener, he made his way to the front door, hoping with all his being that Wilson hadn't been sent to fire him - or worse, to care.

"Wilson? Hi. I'm so sorry I didn't come in, I must have-"

"Jesus, Chase, you look awful. What's happened?"

Chase was torn between a laugh and a scoff. "Uh, thanks?"

"No offence meant! You just- you look exhausted. Have you slept? What's going on? Can I come in?" Wilson's face was the picture of friendly concern, a look he had no doubt perfected over his years of consoling patients. "Sorry. That's a lot of questions. I, uh- House was worried when you didn't show up for work, and I don't have any patients to see until two this afternoon, so-"

Chase cut him off, slightly incredulous. "House was worried? You sure we're talking about the same House here?"

"Well, he didn't say it in as many words - I believe his actual phrasing was 'Wilson, you're good at pretending to care, go make sure Chase hasn't been murdered by a hooker' - but... Yeah. You know what he's like. And after-" he paused to clear his throat, "After Kutner last year, I think he's..." Wilson trailed off.

Chase blinked. That was a lot to digest. "Um. No, yeah, I've just been feeling a little under the weather lately, and I must have forgotten to set my alarm, and..."

"Can I come in?" Wilson sounded hesitant, but Chase also recognised the quiet determination in his eyes. Saying no wasn't going to be an option.

"Uh, sure. Do you want a drink? Coffee?" He closed the door behind the older man, chiding himself for oversleeping, for crashing so badly last night, for yesterday's conversation with House. Now he was going to have to put up with yet more concern and care, and that made him feel nauseous.

The two men walked across the living room. "A coffee would be great, thanks."

It was at that moment Chase suddenly recalled the amount of food he'd mindlessly consumed the night before, and the fact that the kitchen looked a little like a bomb had gone off there. He realised this too late. Wilson was already rounding the corner into the room.

"Ah. Do you... Do you want a hand clearing this up?"

Chase wanted to claw his skin off at the tone of Wilson's voice. Pity was worse than hatred. "Oh damn, I'm sorry, I had friends over last night and we had snacks and I didn't, uh didn't get round to-"

"Chase. House told me about what's been going on. You don't have to lie."

Never had he wanted to crawl away and hide in a hole this much before. They were just trash, just food packets and tins, but he felt so deeply exposed. It was one thing for Wilson to have heard through House that he maybe wasn't doing too good. It was another for him to walk into what felt like the scene of the crime. Averting his eyes, he grabbed a binbag and began sweeping the detritus off the counter.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Wasn't really expecting visitors."

"You don't have to apologise. I can make the coffee - if you don't mind?" Wilson might be annoyingly compassionate at times, but he was also emotionally astute, and presumably aware that him simply standing, eyes boring into Chase, could be offputting.

Chase nodded, unceremoniously dumping the trash in the bin. "Thanks. Um, coffee's in the top right cupboard. I have decaf, if you prefer."

"I'm good with the strong stuff, thanks. House decided last night was the perfect time to start learning a new Stones song on the piano, so I need all the stimulants I can legally get," Wilson chuckled. "So," he filled the kettle with water, "what's going on?"

"You really don't have to-"

"Look, I'm not here to lecture you. I'm sure you're getting that already from House. Hell, you're a doctor - I don't doubt you're lecturing yourself to an extent. But you need to talk to someone. Not necessarily me, although someone I know went through something similar-"

"Something similar? Similar to what exactly?" Despite his best efforts, Chase couldn't keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

Wilson held his hands up. "Hey, I don't mean it in a demeaning way at all. Just - I've seen the impact this kind of thing can have on people, and I want you to know that there are options." Chase made a non committal grunt in response.

The kettle had boiled, and after filling up the mugs, the two men seated themselves at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Chase idly stirred his coffee with the wrong end of a spoon.

"Was it one of your wives?," he asked eventually.

"No. It was, uh, it was my mom."

"Oh."

The silence was awkward but not urgent. They sat and sipped.

Chase cleared his throat. "When you say 'was' - do you-"

Wilson cut him off with an amused smile. "Oh, she's not dead, if that's what you mean," and Chase visibly relaxed, grateful that the tone had been lightened. "It was - she'd always been odd with food, but when my brother got sick, it got worse. I think it was a coping strategy for her. She, uh, it got kinda bad for a while, when I was at med school, but she got therapy. Other than a couple quirks when it comes to eating, she's totally healthy now."

"I'm glad," Chase smiled, guarded but genuine. "I don't have an eating disorder though."

"Chase. Look at me," and his stomach churned, because the god-awful pity voice was back. He dragged his eyes up, away from the rim of his mug. "You don't have to call it a disorder if you don't want to. But from what House has said - from what I've seen - you're not taking care of yourself. If you think you can manage it alone, that's great, but there is support out there." Wilson gave a soft smile. "And between you and me, I think you're one of the only other people who understands House's particular brand of madness. Who else am I gonna commiserate with if you're not firing on all cylinders?"

Forcing a smile back, Chase shrugged. "Fair. But I promise, I'm taking care of myself."

Both of them knew it was a lie, and neither of them wanted to admit that.

Once Wilson had finally left, after more well meaning but inevitably useless platitudes, and with instructions to inform the team he was taking a sick day, Chase took it upon himself to finally shower. He'd been in the same damn clothes for close to thirty hours now, and he could feel the grease permeating every layer. Maybe washing away the grime would help clear the fog that had settled around his ears. Then again, lately he'd been feeling more and more like he could never quite get fully clean. Something lurked on the surface of his skin, not quite physically there and not able to be shaken off. The more he thought about it, the worse it got.

Once he had finally changed into a fresh t shirt and pyjama bottoms, he immediately headed to his bed. Spine still sore from his inadvertent night in the bathtub, he couldn't wait to settle into soft linen and warm sheets. He made a mental note to eat something when he awoke later - food was too much to think about right now - and settled in.

He hadn't been truly comfortable sleeping alone since Cameron had left, but these days it was seeming harder and harder to rest easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! I feel like I'm saying this on every chapter lately, but: I'm sorry for the delay, and I'm sorry if it's shit. Rewrote this several times trying to get happy with it, lol. Ah well. Stay safe, all.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AN: the thought processes depicted in this chapter are not necessarily right and/or healthy. Chase's thoughts and feelings are meant to be portrayed as irrational - please bear that in mind.]

The media really didn't have any idea what it was talking about when it came to this kind of thing, Chase had decided.

After Wilson had left, he'd spent a couple hours slouched on the sofa, not quite able to summon the motivation to be productive, but not quite willing to return to bed. He'd flicked through the cable channels, unable to settle on anything - daytime television really was trash. At some point he'd come across a channel showing reruns of shitty made-for-TV movies, and when he realised the one currently showing was about a girl with an eating disorder, he'd almost pulled a muscle with his mirthless laughter. _Man, it's like someone's trying to tell me something_ , he'd thought, rolling his eyes despite being alone.

The eye rolling continued as he half-watched, the plot being so tedious he couldn't even bring himself to pretend to be invested. All he could gauge about it was that it was a story about a teenage girl (of course) who had fallen out with her friends or her family or her boyfriend or maybe all three, and had turned to an eating disorder thanks to pressure from the media. Pretty standard stuff. Although the fact that Chase knew he absolutely, definitely, without a doubt did _not_ have an eating disorder, he couldn't help but laugh again when the screen showed the protagonist as full of boundless energy, glowing despite supposedly eating little more than an apple a day.

_There's some kind of doctor pun in there somewhere_ , but he was too knackered to figure it out.

When the girl on the TV disappeared into a bathroom stall for a matter of seconds, her vomiting barely audible and ridiculously fast, he was unable to suppress a snort. Did the writers of this have even the faintest idea of what it was like to make yourself throw up? It was messy, noisy, unattractive. It was all snot and saliva and shaking and sore throats and and streaming eyes. There was nothing disturbingly beautiful about it; nothing even close to what was being portrayed. Chase's mind flitted over his own experiences. A thirty-something doctor - a man, no less - with a respectable job and no body image issues was not a tale he could ever envisage being told. Sure, the production companies probably went for the more conventional stories, but he wasn't entirely convinced this was anyone's story. It made him feel even more pathetic. _I'm not even fucked up in the right way._

He was embarrassed enough about Wilson knowing. It wasn't exactly a surprise - after all, there was next to nothing House didn't share with his closest friend - but Chase had still been mortified at the idea of _anyone_ being privy to his little issue, let alone his boss and co-worker. Wilson had been nothing but kind as per usual, but Chase had worked with him long enough to know he could be just as manipulative and single minded as House when he wanted to be. People often wondered why they were seemingly inseparable as friends when there was such a disparity between their personalities. Chase had figured out pretty early on that the two were more alike than most thought.

_At least he's not overreacting and running to Cuddy over this_ , he thought as he picked at the fraying edges of his t shirt. House, via Wilson, had given him the rest of the day off. Chase didn't know how much Wilson had told his boss, and didn't particularly want to. Figuring that if he didn't show up to work the next day there'd likely be a SWAT team at his door by nine thirty, he resolved to sort out the apartment, eat at least a little, and get as much rest as he could before tomorrow. If he could just get this blip under control, if he could get his mask back in place and continue on as he had been, everything would be okay. It wouldn't be a problem.

* * *

Chase awoke with a startled choke caught in his throat.

Digging his fingers into the mattress, he frantically tried to calm his laboured breathing. His sheets were soaked with sweat. _Nightmare_ , he realised.

_Fuck_.

Throughout school and college, all the way up until his move to the States, he'd struggled with a recurring dream that usually surfaced when he was under more stress than usual. It was deeply vague and non specific, but never failed to unsettle him.

_It's dark. An all-encompassing dark. There's a terrible noise like static on an untuned television. Prickly. Sinister. Everything is cold. So cold it ends up circling right back round to an awful, thick, humid heat. But mostly it's just dark._

Entirely nonsensical, with no plot or cast to speak of, Chase could never understand what it was about the nightmare that distressed him on what felt like a cellular level. The experience had always left him off-kilter, with a churning stomach, and despite not having had the dream since he was med school, the feeling was still all-too familiar. It reminded him of times he'd rather not think of. Of long nights, exam stress, casual drug taking. Of promiscuity, alcohol, lighters. Of his mother's death. Of his father.

At that last thought, his stomach turned. Vomiting was hardly an infrequent occurrence at this point, but on this occasion it was entirely involuntary. He barely made it to the trash can by his bedroom door before he was heaving. Reaching a hand to his brow to wipe away the beads of sweat, he was mildly horrified to discover he was crying.

_What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I losing control? None of this is right. Oh, God._

Years had been spent building up solid walls around memories he never wanted to think of again. There was no need to. Those chapters of his life were long gone. It terrified him that the cracks that had begun to form were growing. The desperate attempts to patch them up seemed to be worsening the damage. Something had to give, or he was going to lose his mind.

Whilst still sat against his bedroom wall, head in his hands, Chase came to the conclusion that he had two options.

Option one was to do absolutely nothing. Double down, force out any lingering doubts about what his little habit could be doing to his long term health, and throw himself into the deep end. Get himself so far away from his own thoughts that it wouldn't matter if the walls crumbled. Option two was to stop this all - or at least, start to try to. Make enquiries about self help programs (far away from PPTH, though), work on stopping the binging and purging and restricting cycle, start taking some vitamins for any deficiencies he could have induced in the meantime. Get better.

Chase weighed the options in his mind, and quickly came to what he knew was the correct decision.

His parents were many, many undesirable things, but they didn't raise a quitter. He was throwing himself into the deep end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent update schedule? Who is she?
> 
> As always, many, MANY thanks to everyone leaving kudos and comments. I love and appreciate you all. I'm trying to find a balance between both dialogue/interactions amongst characters, and more internal monologue type stuff - please let me know if you have a preference for one over the other, or if the combo is working. Stay safe and well!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

It was like a switch had flicked in his brain.

The next several weeks somewhat blurred together as one, as Chase lost any will he had to restrain his unhealthy habits. There was now no in-between - he'd go a full day running on little more than a couple slices of toast, and then the all-consuming hunger would overwhelm him, and he'd eat and eat and eat and eat and then vomit. He'd started seeing stars whenever he stood up, and his hands shook during surgery. He was spending more money on food and alcohol than he had since he'd lived with Cameron, just to throw it all back up again. He saw the way his co-workers looked at him, all raised eyebrows and pitying glances. He knew he was a ticking time bomb. He couldn't quite bring himself to care.

* * *

"So, we know it's cancer. Wilson says it's not. I say Wilson's wrong. Ideas?"

Taub and Thirteen glanced at each other as they heard a weary sigh from the doorway. Poor Wilson had run every test known to man - or at least oncology - but House was convinced.

"I've run three MRIs, two PET scans, and a CT. There is _no_ cancer."

"Had it occurred to you at any point to, I don't know, trust the oncologist when it comes to cancer?"

House scoffed. "What next? Trusting neurologists to read brain scans? God, the ignorance levels in the twenty first century are astounding. Run another MRI of his kidneys and liver, this time with Eovist. When the results show cancer, co-"

His sentence was cut short by the office door banging open, a dishevelled Chase not bothering to catch the handle before it banged shut.

"Sorry I'm late. Car trouble."

"Car trouble stop you from wearing matching socks? You look like crap." House glanced him up and down. Everyone in the room felt the atmosphere shift - House's snide remarks were nothing new, but Chase really _did_ look like crap. The same shirt he'd worn yesterday, a lopsided tie, and the aforementioned socks - not to mention the bags under his eyes.

"Late night. How's the patient?"

Wilson cleared his throat, shifting on his feet uncomfortably. Thirteen and Taub busied themselves with pretending they were reading blood results. House simply stared at Chase; studying him. In recent weeks, it had become apparent to everyone around Chase that something was very much going on. Even Thirteen, who respected the privacy of her colleagues more than anyone else on the team, had taken him aside after a differential and asked if there was anything she could do. She was met with clenched teeth and a half hearted insistence that everything was fine. She knew better than to push further.

"I'd tell you, but I'm not entirely sure you're awake enough to remember." House looked expectantly at Chase. "Make yourself a damn coffee."

Chase glared back. "Had one before I came in. Is anyone gonna tell me how the patient is?"

"Jesus. Are you really gonna pick a fight over a cup of coffee?"

"I'm not picking a fight. I just want to do my damn job."

Tensions clearly rising between the two men, Wilson - ever the diplomat - took the heated pause as a perfect moment to go over the scan results again. "He's not improving on antibiotics-"

"Which isn't at _all_ surprising, given it's cancer-"

Wilson held his hands up in mock defeat. "Fine. You've got me. I have been secretly scheming to hide this obvious cancer diagnosis from you all."

"Never said it was obvious", House huffed. Much to everyone's relief, the hostility in the room had dissipated. "Taub, go run the MRI. Thirteen, check out the home - woah, where are you going? Never gave you your instructions." He thrust the end of his cane dangerously close to Wilson's nose.

"I- I have a department to run! What, you wanna argue for another half hour about whether it's cancer or not?"

As the two fellows left to follow their orders - somewhat hesitantly - House turned to Wilson. "However fun that would be, I'm afraid not. We have an important game of good cop, bad cop to play." He gestured across the room.

Wilson had almost forgotten Chase was still in the room, his head resting on the palm of his hand, hunched at the far end of the table. At the diagnostician's words, he raised his eyes to give a piercing glare. Frankly, Wilson was doubly surprised at the venomous look from someone so clearly exhausted - and more concerningly, at the fact Chase hadn't upped and left of his own accord. This was deeply unlike the man he knew his colleague to be.

"Um. Okay. Uh, I'm guessing you mean- uh, Chase, are you sure you're up to being in work today? You seem pretty-"

"What is this, some kind of intervention?", Chase spat, his hunched posture quickly becoming upright and defensive, arms now crossed against his chest. "I can do my job, and that's all that matters."

House let out a long sigh. "Sure. I don't care what you do or say outside of this building, as long as it isn't impacting patient care. Except you've called in sick three days this month, been late half a dozen times, and you're majorly slacking in differentials. Any other boss would have at least disciplined you by now."

"Oh come on", Chase scoffed. "Any other boss? You and I both know that's bullshit. You're _not_ any other boss. You don't give a damn about your employees and that works for both of us. My personal life-"

"Your 'personal life' is no longer personal when it becomes apparent to anyone who comes into contact with you that you're in self destruct mode."

The younger man let out an almost hysterical laugh. "House? Lecturing me about self destruction? What kind of hypocritical parallel universe have I fallen into?"

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's just - let's take this down a notch." Desperately trying to restore at least some semblance of equilibrium in the room, Wilson prayed this wouldn't escalate any further. "Chase, no-one is saying you can't do your job." He raised his hand to stop House from interjecting, and somewhat unexpectedly, it worked. He lowered his voice. "Look, I know things are tough right now. But I just - _we_ just - we wanna make sure that you're getting all the support you need."

There was a long pause. "I don't need any support. I'm managing just fine."

"Christ, you're dead on your feet half the time, you look like a-" A stern glance from Wilson stopped House in his tracks, mercifully cutting off whatever comparison he was about to make. "Anyway. Here's the thing. I don't care, so don't worry your pretty little head over that. Unfortunately, I'm forced by hospital regulations to offer you blah blah, any support you may require through blah blah blah-"

Chase snorted. "As if you've ever cared about hospital regulations."

Another uncomfortable silence ensued. Eventually, House cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Here's the thing. Cuddy has come to me with 'concerns' about your current fitness to work. I haven't told her anything about the situation, but at this rate she's gonna cotton on pretty fast. She wanted to force you onto medical leave." At Chase's panicked expression, he quickly continued. "I persuaded her to let you stay on one condition."

Shifting in his seat, Chase was clearly apprehensive. "What's the condition?"

"You go to therapy."

"No."

"Go to therapy, or you're fired."

Chase was like a rabbit caught in headlights, Wilson thought. He wished he could swoop in and override House's demands, but he knew that in this case, it was more than justified. "Even if it's just one appointment, Chase. You know this is the right decision."

Chewing on his lip, resignation written across his features, Chase sighed. "It's not exactly like I have a choice, do I?"

Wilson nodded his head, grateful that despite the conflict, it hadn't taken as much persuasion as he'd worried. 

"Right. Uh, I really have to get back to my office. Am I okay to-?" He gestured toward the corridor.

House stood swiftly. In spite of his abrasive nature, it was obvious to both men that he was relieved the confrontation was over. "Gotta go see a man about an MRI. Be down there with Taub in fifteen, Dr Chase." He was acknowledged with a barely visible nod of the head.

As the two older men left, Chase gnawed at his fingernails. This was objectively a Bad Situation, and although he knew logically that it was clear to all his co-workers that he was spiralling, he resented being confronted about it.

He took solace in knowing he'd be able to bullshit some second year psych student into clearing him to get back to work, no strings attached, in no time at all. 

_Still not a problem. Still in control._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone who's still subscribed/reading - I can't apologise enough for the protracted delay in updating. What with the pandemic and stuff in my personal life, writing has had to take a back seat for a couple months. I won't make any promises I can't keep, but this fic is by no means abandoned and I hope to be back on track uploading at least a couple times a month now. Again, so sorry for the inadvertent hiatus! I hope you're all well and keeping safe.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_Well, that was sufficiently hellish._

The House-mandated therapy session had gone about as well as Chase expected it to. Much to his relief, he'd mostly been able to dodge the tricky questions and fudge the answers on the rest, with some kernels of truth sprinkled in; he'd been a doctor long enough to know the kinds of answers that would land him in a facility, or worse - suspended. The psychologist had been kind enough, despite looking barely over 30, and was gentle and reassuring. Chase used this to his advantage. He didn't enjoy manipulating people, but had no qualms about doing so in situations where it seemed the only viable option.

"So, Dr. Chase, what can I help you with?"  
 _I'm losing my mind and I couldn't even begin to articulate the shit that's been going on._ "My employer wanted me to see someone just to make sure I'm managing - I've probably not been sleeping and eating as well as I should."

"Has anything in particular triggered this?"  
 _I killed a man, my wife left me, I'm fundamentally defective as a human being._ "Uh, I guess it's been a tough few months at work. I work on complex cases, so it can get a little overwhelming."

"Have you ever seen a psychologist or other mental health professional before?"  
 _They made me go after my mother died. I sat in silence for three sessions before they gave up._ "Just a counsellor at my school, back when I was a kid. Standard teenage anxieties, y'know?"

"How would you describe your mood over the past few months?"  
 _Half the time I'm so numb and detached I don't remember what feeling is like, and the other half I'm so overwhelmed I want to claw off my skin._ "I suppose I've been, um, a little low, but that's par for the course with a job like mine."

"Who do you live with? Are you in a relationship, any dependents?"  
 _The woman I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with left me because I murdered a man._ "Nah, I'm living alone and single at the moment. No kids."

"Would you consider yourself to have any issues with drug or alcohol misuse?"  
 _Some nights I get so drunk that I wake up to empty packets in the kitchen and dried blood on the toilet seat and I don't even remember it._ "I drink socially, maybe a couple times a week? Haven't smoked weed since college, haha."

"At this moment in time, do you have any plans to harm either yourself or others?"  
 _I'm fully aware of the danger I'm putting myself in by puking up my guts almost every day, but at least I only actively want to die occasionally. "_ Absolutely not."

"Either now, or at any point in the past, are you or have you been subject to any form of abuse, be it physical, mental, or sexual?"  
 _Oh God._ "Nope."

"What are your some goals you'd like to set for these sessions? What would you like to get out of this?"  
 _I don't care, I just want to get out of here and back to my life and I'm a fully grown man who's well within his rights to treat his own body however he wants._ "Uh, I think my insomnia is the biggest issue right now - I can't see myself needing much help with it, though."

Chase left the office with a follow up appointment in two weeks' time, and his nails digging into his palm. He had no intentions of attending the next session. Box ticked, mental health officially cleared. She barely even asked about his diet. _If this was an issue that needed solving, she'd have picked up on it,_ he decided. He just had to regain some modicum of control over himself at Princeton Plainsboro - even if he couldn't truly fool House, he was confident he could fool anyone with any real administrative power, and that's all that mattered.

* * *

Narrowed eyes followed Chase as he sat in the corner of the cafeteria, hunched over. A coffee in one hand, and some medical journal in the other. Drumming his fingers on the table edge, House mused silently. It was blatantly obvious to everyone in Chase's vicinity that something had been off for some time now; what House didn't think everyone else had picked up on was that it was significantly worse than it seemed. The two had worked, on and off, in the same office for over seven years, and despite the various trials and tribulations his employee had faced over the years, House was certain he'd never seen Chase so despondent. Even on his worst days he'd prioritise his job above all else, but recently? He'd taken more sick days this month than he'd used in the past two years combined.

House wasn't an idiot. He knew that a single appointment with a psychologist was unlikely to provide Chase with the level of support necessary for any kind of life-changing breakthrough, or even acknowledgement of the issue. But since his stay in Mayfield - and he hated to admit it - there was a tiny rivulet of hope within him, a real sense that no matter how damaged someone was, they could work through at least a few tiers of rubble to be able to see the daylight. And hell, if even _he_ could do that, he was confident it'd work for Chase. Then again, he wasn't entirely able to gauge how damaged Chase really was.

Since the _incident_ in the parking lot, House had been mulling over what had led to Chase's reaction that seemed blown out of all proportion. The untimely death of a patient from a malady he'd been struggling with would upset anyone, obviously - but this seemed like more. The instinctual, visceral response when he'd offered a rare physical acknowledgement to the distressed man seemed odd - after all, House thought he'd somehow talked him down from the worst of the panic. He'd worked with vulnerable people long enough to know what that kind of body language could mean.

Inappropriate jibes about taboo topics were entirely on-brand for House, and over the years he'd made every jab possible at all his fellows, including many making light of abuse. It wasn't that he was truly callous - John House had done a damn good job of making sure he'd never find anything like that amusing - but no subject was off limits when it came to cheap jokes, and that included at Chase's expense. If anyone was an easy target for witty quips about Catholic priests or having a pretty mouth, it was him. Astute as he was, House had never noticed any discomfort from his employee around those kind of comments. Then again, he also knew first-hand how easy it was to wall off that kind of thought process, to stop the rumination before the seed was even planted. Years of witnessing screaming matches in the hospital hallways and having to prescribe ice baths to sick patients had made him almost immune to those dark memories.

There was no way to tell for sure if it was just projection, but House mulled over the pervasive thought that he was seeing those same defence mechanisms with Chase. He hoped he was wrong, for everyone's sake. If there was more to this situation than he knew, he didn't dare think where rock bottom might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to everyone leaving kudos and/or comments! Whilst writing is therapeutic in itself, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get butterflies in my stomach every time I see someone's left kudos or said something lovely. I hope the story continues to be sufficient, and I hope you're all safe and well.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"Anyone in there?"

"Occupied", Chase yelled out from the floor of the wheelchair-accessible bathroom stall. He prayed his voice was steady.

* * *

It was a long story. He hadn't exactly ended up there on purpose. Apparently, skipping breakfast _and_ lunch on a day where he'd be on his feet in surgery for six hours straight was unwise - it was a minor miracle he'd managed to keep the shaking of his hands at bay throughout. It didn't take a medical degree to figure out the signs of low blood sugar, and as soon as he was back in the conference room, Chase brewed himself the strongest coffee he could bear, complete with two and a half spoonfuls of sugar. Under his breath, he snorted at the phrase printed on the machine.

_Good Coffee - Cheaper than Prozac!_

The slogan had been there as long as Chase could remember, but recently in particular its irony had not been lost on him.

The team's latest case - some college sophomore with unexplained allergy symptoms - had been successfully diagnosed and discharged the day before, with no more than a course of Prednisone and stern instructions to stay away from chamomile tea, so the department was unusually quiet for three in the afternoon. Thirteen was on clinic duty. Taub had left early - something about his kids. Foreman was consulting on a case in Neurology. House was, presumably, harassing Cuddy or pestering Wilson. Chase sat, grateful for the uncommon solitude, swirling the spoon in his mug. He really did feel like shit.

Logically, he knew that anyone veering wildly between the extremes of his current diet would have some less than desirable side effects. He wasn't sure if it was all that, though. Recently he'd gone from tired to seriously fatigued; he couldn't hold his focus. Concentration had never been an issue for him in the past - he thrived under pressure, acing his medical exams, never one to shy away from high-intensity situations. Hell, that was his entire specialty. He just couldn't get his brain out of this sludge it seemed to have settled into. He'd have felt defeated if he had the energy to.

Downing the coffee in two gulps, wincing as it burned his oesophagus but grateful for the sensation, Chase was overcome by a wave of nausea. _That was way too much sugar_. The saccharine taste wouldn't have made him flinch a few months ago, but he had grown accustomed to drinking his coffee plain and black. A grimace spread across his features.

 _Ironic how much I hate feeling sick given what I'm bloody doing to myself_ , he half-chuckled as he exited the office, unable to ignore the slight shake in his hands as he fumbled with the lock to the disabled bathroom. The mild guilt that he felt each time he took up one of only two wheelchair-friendly stalls on the whole fourth floor was pushed to the back of his mind as he perched on the closed toilet lid, breathing purposefully and deeply. At least this time he wasn't using it for unsavoury reasons - although when that was the plan, he had come to the somewhat shameful situation that this was the best place for it - away from prying eyes and ears in the public men's bathrooms, and with handy grabrails for pulling oneself from the floor.

Leaning forward to reach the handily positioned basin, Chase turned on the cold tap with one hand and cupped the other under the running water, splashing the mercifully cool liquid up across his face. When glucose failed, a shock to the system never failed to cement him back firmly on earth, even if only for an hour or two. The beads of water trickled down his cheeks and temples. Still, he couldn't seem to control the trembling in his hands. It was almost as if his whole body was shivering despite the sweat also forming on his brow.

Chase mentally chastised himself for no longer carrying mints around in his pocket. They may have been a tell to his employer that he was engaging in some behaviours he'd much rather keep secret, but at least they'd offer some more sugar. Much to his chagrin, he came to the conclusion he'd have to both eat something substantial, _and_ keep it all down. That had been getting progressively harder lately.

Leant over the sink, head resting on arms and arms folded against the cold porcelain, he swallowed and took a deep breath before pushing himself upright. He should have expected the white noise that took over his head for a split second - after all, it happened whenever he stood up these days, and orthostatic intolerance would only be made worse by his clearly low blood sugar. But he didn't.

The fuzziness around his vision intensified, and he stumbled backwards. Attempting to reach for one of the grab rails, Chase blindly threw his arms to the side, hoping to find one to clasp onto for stability. He grabbed onto thin air instead. Even through the static in his vision and the soup in his brain, he registered the almighty _crack_ as the side of his head smacked into the blue linoleum tiling of the floor.

* * *

Chase wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but it couldn't have been more than a couple seconds. Intriguingly, the impact seemed to have stopped the persistent shaking, and he lay there, stunned by the fall. Gingerly shifting his weight as he pulled himself upright, he was relieved that he didn't seem to have fractured, dislocated, severed, or otherwise seriously maimed anything. His mouth curled up and he winced as he moved his shoulder - that would leave a bruise. In the grand scheme of things, a bruise didn't seem so bad. He figured that the ugly noise made as he'd hit the ground had been the sound of his scapula against tile.

"Anyone in there?"

"Occupied", Chase yelled out from the floor of the wheelchair-accessible bathroom stall. He prayed his voice was steady. Still rather lightheaded, he got to his knees, cautiously lifting himself from the floor. Time seemed to have slowed down somehow. The footsteps outside the door had thankfully receded.

He walked back to the conference room in somewhat of a daze, mildly horrified he'd neglected himself to the point of passing out in a workplace bathroom. That being said, it was less that Chase _cared_ for his health, and more frustration over it occurring in work hours. If something like that were to occur in front of his colleagues, he'd be in deep shit. Approaching the office, he noticed House seated at the table, a stack of papers substantial enough to indicate they were likely onto a new case; a welcome distraction. He said a silent thank you to a God he didn't believe in as he pushed open the glass door.

"Doctor Chase! Nice of you to join us. Well, I say us, it's actually just..." House trailed off. Chase raised his eyebrows expectantly, and then with trepidation. Concern was not a look he was used to seeing on his boss' face.

"Actually just what?"

House stood quickly, not bothering to grab his cane. "What in God's name happened to you?"

"I don't know what - nothing's happened to me, I-" As he spoke, Chase glanced down at his shirt, which seemed to be the focal point of House's attentions. He was shocked to see a not-insignificant patch of blood. Tracing the scarlet trail along his collar and up his neck, he felt an awful stickiness against his palm. The realisation that he was bleeding profusely from his head hit him almost as hard as the fall had. The colour drained from his face as House grabbed his wrist, and it was only then Chase realised he was swaying. Everything seemed a little too bright.

"What the hell have you done to yourself?"

 _There's no getting out of this one_ was Chase's last thought before everything dimmed into a soft, dull darkness.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

"You idiot."

As Chase registered those words and gradually became aware of the world once again, a piercing light was thrust into his line of sight. Screwing up his eyes, he instinctively groaned and tried to twist his head away. The brightness dissipated, and he came to the unhappy realisation that he was in a hospital bed, with his employer sat next to him.

"Hey. I need to look in your eyes, Chase. Neuro exam. We've already CTed your head, so don't feign unconsciousness to get out of this."

Glaring at House through blurry eyes, Chase attempted to clear his throat to speak. "What the- what's going on? Neuro exam?"

"You don't remember?"

"I, uh, I don't remember there is anything to remember", he muttered. "God, my head hurts." The room was becoming less fuzzy by the second, and as he attempted to prop himself upright, Chase became aware of a thick dressing on the side of his head.

House managed to look both concerned and irritated. "You don't remember dripping blood all over the carpet in the office? Come on, that's my territory you're stepping on." Seeing Chase roll his eyes at this comment, he was a fraction more reassured. "Mental faculties seem to be intact. Sit upright."

The more time that passed, the more Chase became aware of his surroundings and the situation. House, ever efficient, continued checking his reflexes as Chase glanced around the small side room, at the vitals monitor clipped to his finger. Whatever had gone on, it was a relief to see he seemed to have all his limbs and organs. Frowning, he dragged his mind back to pre- _this_.

"I remember, um – I remember going to the bathroom." An overwhelming sense of dread began to overtake him as he spoke. He'd been feeling terrible on account of the lack of food, hadn't he? He'd done this to himself. And now he was sat in a hospital bed, his boss staring at him with those piercing eyes, entirely at his mercy. Oh _God_.

House exhaled. "You wandered into the conference room a few hours ago dripping blood everywhere. Once you realised you were bleeding, you promptly passed out on me. You were taken downstairs to the ER, who took you for an urgent head CT. Being the idiots they are down there, they initially refused to sedate you – they thought it was contraindicted for a potential brain injury. The attending changed her tune pretty quickly when I told her that I knew about her affair with Brown in Oncology. Scan revealed a three inch linear fracture to your parietal bone, with a moderate concussion, the side effects of which will be somewhat prolonged due to the sedatives. You don't need surgery and there was no direct tissue injury to the brain, but you're gonna have one hell of a headache when the propofol fully wears off. We'll keep you overnight for monitoring, but all being well, you'll be discharged tomorrow. Given that you pulled this little stunt in a bathroom, no one is sure whether you tripped and fell, or whether you lost consciousness prior to falling. Judging from your bloodwork, I'd place my bets on the latter. Thus bringing me back to my earlier statement. You idiot."

Chase was temporarily stunned into silence.

He eventually found his voice. "What do you want me to say? That you're wrong? Or that you're right? I mean – do you want me to break down and tell you what a wake up call this is; that I realise now I've been making some bad decisions and now I've seen the error of my ways? That-"

"Yes!" House exclaimed. "I want you to tell me that! Or even some recognition that you're destroying yourself from the inside out." Realising he was yelling, he lowered his voice. "I want to know what the hell the endgame of all this is. What exactly do you hope to achieve? Because the way you're going, there's only one destination you're headed for."

The reply was almost inaudible.

"I don't know."

"See, that's – I don't believe that! How can you possibly not know what compels you to eat until you're fit to burst and then shove your fingers down your throat? Surely you see how messed up that is."

Chase, who had been resolutely ignoring anything even close to eye contact for the entire conversation, took a deep breath and looked up. Digging his fingertips into his palms, he swallowed.

"It's- I don't think I can- God, why do you never stop digging?"

House was mildly horrified to see a thin sheen of moisture covering Chase's eyes, threatening but ultimately refusing to spill. He'd hired Chase seven years ago, and never once had he seen him cry.

"When- when you were on Vicodin, how would you have felt if someone had asked you what the hell your problem was?"

House snorted. "Uh, hello, that's all people ever did. Difference is, I was in pain from the beginning. Vicodin is a pain- _killer_. I know it's been a while since I was at med school, but I'm pretty sure that making yourself puke every other day isn't a treatment for anything." He paused and cleared his voice. "Last year, I was, uh, on methadone for a short while, to try and help my leg. Wilson tried to be a smartass and cornered me into drinking. For obvious reasons, I had to get it out, and I gotta say, the experience did not endear itself to me. So, for the nth time – _why_?"

Chase met House's eyes. "Do you really want to know?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I don't _care,_ don't worry. But solely from a professional perspective, I need to understand where your mind is at so I know whether you need to be on a psych hold once you're medically fit. So. Talk."

A few minutes of quiet expectation passed, before Chase hesitantly began to speak.

"You know when – you know when you've had a really shitty day, or something, and everything's gone wrong, and it all just kind of stacks up and builds inside of you, and it gets to the point where you end up punching a wall or yelling at your girlfriend to let it all out? It's like… it's the physical equivalent of that. When everything has gone to crap, and you just – it's like, you just take that and you make it physical – and you just eat and eat until it hurts, and it's like it doesn't even change how you feel because you felt like that metaphorically already. And it's like I'm so close to just exploding or breaking down or something, and it's so awful but so easy too and I can just… get it all out, literally. And it's messy and it's horrible and I hate it but it's such an endorphin rush and I'm a doctor I fucking _know_ how dangerous it can be but it's just gotten to the point where I can't bring myself to care. It gets it all out and I almost feel cleansed. Purged.

"After the whole, uh, the whole Dibala situation, it's like I crossed this line. And I _know_ I did the right thing. But – I don't think – I think that even the best of people would be fucked up from that, and I sure as hell wasn't one of them to begin with. Having that kind of power – honestly, it terrifies me. Ever since then I felt like I was teetering on the edge of… something, I don't know what. And then Cameron, I mean, of _course_ she had to know, but it just, it was just another part of my life pulled out from under my feet. It's just… it's complicated."

House was momentarily stunned – he wasn't sure he'd ever heard his employee talk so candidly and openly.

"Anyone ever tell you your life is pretty messed up?"

Chase just scoffed, and settled back against his propped up pillows, as if he expected the conversation to draw to a close.

"But that's not everything, is it?" Knowing he was treading in dangerous waters, House did everything he could to keep his voice measured and low. He watched as Chase dug his thumbs into the light blanket across him. "There's more."

Visibly guarded now, Chase eyed him warily. "Of course there's more to it, but I'm not gonna go over every tiny thing that's ever made me stressed or angry in my life."

"Sure, that'd be ridiculous. How about just the big things then?"

"I killed a dictator and my wife left me, is that not good enough of a sob story for you?"

"Why did you flinch when I touched you in the car that day?"

"I- what?"

"Don't pretend you don't remember. Day that old patient of ours died and I found you hyperventilating up a storm in your car. I tried out the whole physical-contact-as-comfort thing, and you flinched. I've never seen you flinch except then."

"House." It was somehow a mix of a warning and a plea. "Please. Leave it. It doesn't mean anything."

"Liar."

"I am asking you, not as a patient, not as an employee, but as one person to another – _please_ don't." Jaw clenched, Chase tried fruitlessly to stop the tremoring in his hands. Undeterred as always, House continued.

"That kind of reaction means one of two things. One, that someone is about to hurt you. Two," he continued even as Chase closed his eyes and a single tear quickly escaped and ran down his cheek, "that no-one is about to hurt you, but you _think_ they are. And once again, _that_ is caused by one of two things. Either you're paranoid or delusional and really think there's a chance someone's about to hurt you, or someone's hurt you before." House cleared his throat. "Despite your current predicament, I've never seen anything in you that suggests you're suffering from a clinical anxiety disorder or any psychotic or thought disorder. Am I wrong?"

Chase shifted his body, pointedly angling away from his employer, his face obscured by a corner of the sheet he'd pulled up. "I'm going to sleep now." His voice was thick.

Always searching for the final answer in every situation, House was frustrated at Chase's response, but knew better than to push it even further. He didn't want to be responsible for a full scale meltdown – or worse, have to comfort his employee. He stood, sighing deeply.

"This conversation isn't over. It's just on hold. Get some rest."

Chase didn't respond, other than to shuck the blanket even higher.

Grabbing his cane from its position leaning against the foot of the bed, House gave one last cursory glance over Chase's SATs before turning to leave. "Oh, and I'm putting in another referral to a psychiatrist. A competent one this time. If anyone can sort your shit out, it's him. His name's Nolan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly longer than usual delay! Life continues to throw many curveballs, as I'm sure it does for many of you. Thank you so much to everyone still commenting, leaving kudos, and bookmarking etc - it truly means the world. I hope the story continues to be okay.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Post-discharge, Chase had been sent home to take a full week off with stern instructions from his employer to rest, eat properly, and take the prescribed doses of Aleve. He suspected that House didn’t want to dole out any opioids at risk of him ending up in a similar predicament to House – and despite being confident that drugs were not the kind of unhealthy crutch he’d end up relying on, Chase was grateful that he wasn’t on anything too strong. Many years back he’d had a wisdom tooth removed, and the Percocet prescribed to ease the pain had made him feel detached and foggy. There was already enough of that in his head.

He was still beyond mortified at the situation he’d found himself in. None of this was ever meant to have happened. The fact he’d lost control and ended up injured in such a public way was almost as shameful as keeping it a secret in the first place. Sure, House already knew, but there was a huge difference between _knowing_ and s _eeing_. The difference between a patient reporting that they’re a heroin addict on an intake form, and walking into the bathroom and finding them with a needle in their arm. It made everything so much more tangible – it meant that someone outside his own head could see him as vulnerable as he felt inside. Although anyone who knew Chase on a more than superficial level could tell he had baggage, it was a whole other ball park to be perceived as weak, or fragile, or needy. The idea of that made him sick to his stomach.

Almost on cue, his stomach rumbled. House must have known his instructions to absolutely _not_ binge or purge were likely to go unnoticed, but Chase truly was trying his best. Unfortunately, his foolproof method to avoid doing so was to simply avoid as much food as possible. It was late evening, and he sighed to himself as he rolled over to pull himself out of the warmth of his bed. Time for another coffee.

In the past, he’d read tales of people who’d grappled with some kind of issue or addiction, who’d had a wake up call when they hit rock bottom. Addicts who realised the value of their life after falling into a coma; anorexics discovering a new passion after going to rehab. If this was any other patient, Chase would have classed ‘starving and vomiting yourself into hypoglycaemia that leads to a head injury’ as rock bottom, but in his situation it really wasn’t, right? Somewhere in the deep recesses of his thoughts, it occurred to him that he might be thinking irrationally about this. He decided he wasn’t. In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t rock bottom. Ending up there was not on the cards.

* * *

Monday morning rolled around quickly, and as Chase hopped off the bus outside Nolan’s office (House had confiscated his driving licence until he proved his concussion was fully gone), he found himself brimming with anxiety. Another House-imposed condition was that he wouldn’t be allowed to return to work until he’d had this appointment, and however much Chase hated the idea of yet another strange person attempting and failing to dive deep into his psychological issues, he’d tolerate it if it meant he could get back to his job and continue self-destructing privately. According to his employer, Nolan was a veteran of psychiatry – no nonsense, intelligent, and wise to any manipulation coming from his patients. Chase couldn’t bring himself to be _too_ concerned though. Nothing and no-one could stop him from doing what he liked to his _own_ body; it was none of their business.

Entering the waiting room, Chase was relieved to see the area empty, save for a bored-looking receptionist sat at the desk, filling out some no doubt mind numbing data entry. He was sympathetic - he might be an intensivist by specialty, but he’d done his fair share of paperwork over the years, and it never got any less tedious. Butterflies fluttered faster in his stomach as he approached the counter. Opening his mouth to speak, he was cut off mid-breath.

“Dr Nolan’s eleven am, I assume? Robert?”

Chase found himself relieved for some reason that he didn’t have to broach the subject himself. There was no shame in psychotherapeutic help, but he still felt embarrassed to be a _doctor_ of all people with issues, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be standing there if it hadn’t been a job requirement. He nodded slightly in affirmation.

“He’ll be with you shortly.” The receptionist gave a half-smile, no doubt on autopilot, and gestured for Chase to take a seat.

Absent-mindedly, he sat on one of the deceptively soft blue chairs – near the exit, it somehow felt safer - and tapped his fingernails against his knees, through his trousers. Even though he planned on bullshitting his way through as much of the session as possible, his body tingled with anxiety. Chase had always been a private person; only letting people in as much as was necessary.

It felt like no time had passed at all before a deep voice from the left echoed into the room.

“Dr Chase?”

His stomach lurched, but he forced the butterflies down as far as they’d go before standing and walking with silent trepidation towards the doctor. He forced a smile and shook the outstretched hand, hoping his own palm didn’t feel as clammy as he feared.

“Good to meet you, Dr Chase. I’m Darryl Nolan. Are you ready to come through?”

“Yeah”, Chase willed his voice not to shake. _Get a grip! You’re a fully grown man talking to another man. Pull yourself together_ , he mentally chided himself.

The interior of the office looked much as Chase had imagined in would, but with a little more personality than he’d expected. The room was a faded creamy yellow, and pictures adorned walls and the dark wooden fireplace, with a handful of chairs spaced just far enough apart to seem professional yet intimate. In spite of the warmth of the room, he shivered.

“Take a seat, Dr Chase. May I call you Robert?”

“Sure.” Chase bit the inside of his own lip, smoothing out non-existent creases in his jeans as he settled onto the dark leather chair. Nolan seated himself in the chair opposite, face gentle but unreadable.

“So, as you’re probably aware, Dr House asked me to see you before you’re medically cleared to return to your post, after a recent incident?” His inflection made it clear that he wanted an explanation straight from the horse’s mouth, but Chase wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Uh, yeah. It’s stupid really,” he laughed shakily, “I passed out and hurt my head because I hadn’t eaten enough that day. I mean – you know House, right? You saw him. You know he can be stubborn.”

Nolan let a faint smile creep onto his face. “I do know what he can be like. I also know he’s very concerned about your wellbeing – physically and mentally. He told me he’d brought this up with you, mm?”

“I mean, he’s not really _concerned_ so much as covering his arse. And House is a total control freak; he just wants to – y’know cause as many issues for me as possible. I’m used to that by now.”

“He may have issues of his own, but I really believe he’s worried for your welfare. I prefer to hear directly from people what they believe their issues are, but my correspondence with Dr House heavily suggests that he believes you’re dealing with an eating disorder.” The smile had been replaced with a soft yet firm gaze. “Would you agree with that?”

Digging his nails into the undersides of his forearms as he sat, arms crossed, Chase prayed for coherence when he opened his mouth. This was going to be tricky. “Well, I – I know that I could probably eat a little better, but I don’t have body image issues, I don’t want to lose weight-“

“Dr Chase.” Nolan cut him off mid sentence, and Chase was surprised. Weren’t therapists supposed to just let you talk? “I’m told you’re an excellent doctor. I’m sure you know as well as I do that body dysmorphia is only one potential symptom of an eating disorder.”

Chase stammered as he tried to explain himself. “Yeah. But this isn’t, like… it’s not – it’s not about food, the passing out thing was a one off. I should have eaten more that day. You know what it’s like, sometimes you work yourself too hard and forget to eat or whatever.”

“Do you often find you’ve worked yourself too hard?”

This wasn’t the route Chase had expected the discussion to go. “Well, I work for one of the top doctors in the country. Of course it’s a lot of hard work.”

Nolan nodded. “Dr House mentioned that recently you’d dealt with some more job related stress than is usual.”

Chase’s stomach dropped into his shoes. _Surely_ House hadn’t told him about Dibala. He swallowed. “What, uh, what did he say?”

“He didn’t go into details. Just that several of the cases recently had been particularly difficult. Is that how you see it?”

“I suppose so.”

A short silence ensued. The faint noise of a clock ticking filled the air, and Chase found himself getting increasingly wound up in the absence of any conversation.

“So what is it I have to say?”, he snapped impatiently. “Tell me what I need to tell you about. Or, or what I need to do or whatever, so I can get back to my job and stop wasting both our time.”

Nolan eyed him, quiet and measured. “That’s really up to you.”

“What does that even mean?!” Biting his tongue, Chase attempted to talk himself down from the sudden wave of frustration that had overcome him. “Am I supposed to, like, talk about my divorce, or my shitty childhood, or…”

“Both of those sound like they were very stressful for you.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “House said you fixed him up. Was it with this crap?” Ever since he could remember he’d become angry and reactive when his buttons were pushed, and although he had a better lid on his temper these days, it still flared up at times like these.

Nolan straightened a little in his chair, appearing entirely unphased. “I’m not at liberty to discuss another patient’s sessions with you – I’m sure you understand – but Dr House has been seeing me for a not insignificant amount of time now, and whilst it’s not always been straightforward, he’s put in the work to begin dealing with some of his issues.”

“I don’t need to put work into something that doesn’t need fixing!” scoffed Chase. He eyed his bag on the floor, and suddenly made a decision. “You know what? This is pointless. Tell House I’m fine. Or don’t. I’m done with this shit.” Grabbing his satchel, he avoided eye contact with the older man as he stormed out of the office.

“Dr Chase-“

There was no response. Chase was already halfway through the waiting area, having not bothered to close the door behind him. What a colossal waste of his morning. Who the hell was Nolan – or House, for that matter – to tell him what he could or couldn’t do to deal with his own brain? Ultimately, he decided, the only person it was hurting was him. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t stop it if he ever wanted to. Right now, this place was comfort.

Much later, Chase sat exhausted on the edge of his bed. His throat hurt. The kitchen bin was overflowing with cardboard packaging again. The bathroom smelt of that overly strong floral air freshener. His stomach ached. His head still pounded from the force of vomiting so much. He tried very hard not to think about anything as he pulled his sore body onto the mattress and curled up as tight as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no speak! I can once again only apologise for the massive delay in uploading this chapter, thanks to a mixture of personal circumstances, the apparent end of the world, and frankly a shitload of writer's block. I won't make any promises I can't keep, but please know that this fic will NOT be abandoned, even if it takes forever - it means a hell of a lot to me, and from the comments I've received, to some of you too. Thank you all so much, and a belated happy new year!


End file.
